


To hell with circumstances....

by fantasticalwalker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticalwalker/pseuds/fantasticalwalker
Summary: The first chapter has a violent scene - please be aware.  It is a mid-sized paragraph in length.





	1. Adversity introduces a man to himself

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter has a violent scene - please be aware. It is a mid-sized paragraph in length.

He was sitting on a stool in the center of the stable corridor that ran down the length of the stable. Stall doors led off the corridor into large boxy stalls that stabled the horses for customers of the inn. It was quiet, the horses still, as though they too were listening to the man sitting opposite him, amazed at the information he was imparting from the papers in his hands. 

Lucien sat on the stool, legs apart, leaning his elbows on his knees, head bent, holding a paper gingerly between his fingers, careful not to tear it. He was staring at it blankly. He had never seen a letter before now. He had certainly never received a letter before now.

The man in front of him cleared his throat, irritably. He was not used to delivering important letters to stables of dirty inns. Or to obviously poor, uneducated, and dim-witted stable lads. He was obviously illiterate and was just turning the papers mindlessly, too stupid to even ask a question as to what any of it meant. He crossed his legs, careful not to crease his pants and brushed an imaginary piece of straw from his sleeve. He peered again at the youth in front of him.

‘Can you read?’ he asked with undisguised impoliteness.

Lucien did not reply nor did he look at the man. He could both read and write. Gatien had also tutored him Latin. There had been other tutors and studies. He understood the papers. But he was shocked into silence by their contents. The blue-cloaked soldier had died in battle. There was a will, and he was named in it. There was money and a house in Paris. And there was a letter.

 

Lucien:  
The man delivering this letter and papers to you will think you are uneducated and illiterate. Of course, you and I know you read and write quite well, in both French and Latin. As for education, while the nuns and I did our best, you have not had a formal education. Yet, you are, as well read and informed as any noble’s son your age and your skills in mathematics are remarkable. I regret that I was unable to do more for you on this matter. 

If you are reading this, then I am dead. I have most likely died from injuries sustained in the service of the King. I have always known that this would most certainly be how I ended my days. Those of us in this regiment know our lives can be short. 

I have advised you to consider joining the regiment. You are quite skilled already with sword and musket. Your intelligence, reasoning and self-control will serve you well. You are a natural leader and men will follow you. The regiment can serve you well. 

I doubt you will weep for me. You must not feel guilty about it. I wept for you on many occasions. I believe you know the depth with which I came to care for you.  
I have left you the means to ease your way in this world. Use it wisely. 

Gatien

 

Lucien Grimaud stared at the letter, letting his mind drift back…

He had been a young boy, working for the innkeeper for a meal and a cot in the back of the stable. It was raining hard and he was in the stable. He had already cleaned the stalls, fed, watered and brushed the horses. He was cleaning tack, sitting on stool, turning the leather in his hands. The rain beat a steady pattern on the roof. It was quiet and warm with heat of animals, pungent with the odors of their bodies, straw, and leather. He could hear, at a distance, the raucous sounds of drunken men in the tavern.

He had left the inn, the blue-cloaked King’s soldiers getting louder and drunker by the hour. Soon, they would leave for the little huts at the edge of the village, where his mother lived. He gritted his teeth and rubbed savagely at the leather harness in his hands. 

The door to the stable slammed open, and the horses started, moving restlessly at the rain, wind and crashes of thunder now filling the stable. 

‘Boy,’ shouted a drunken voice. ‘where are you!’ It was a demand, not a question. The soldier, blue cape dragging in the mud, fell against the door, lurched into the stable, and staggered into the corridor from which the stalls were entered. 

The voice was unfamiliar, and he went to the door of the tack room, wiping his hands, frowning at the man’s drunken presence. The man struggled to stay upright, swinging the bottle of wine to his mouth and drinking deeply, his bleary eyes trying to focus on the figure in the doorway. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took several unsteady steps towards the boy. 

‘Do you want something, sir?’ asked the boy nervously. He had not seen this man on previous visits by the regiment. 

‘Come here boy,’ the man growled at him. He was advancing on the boy who backed into the tack room, confused and suddenly frightened. 

He was a big man and as he came through the door, he reeled forward, grabbed at him. The boy ducked sideways, twisting his shoulder away and tried to dart around his attacker, but the man was more agile that his size would predict and caught him by the arm, easily swinging him back and throwing him against the wall. The boy’s head snapped back, knocked senseless and he slid down to the floor, vision blurring and ears ringing. The man grabbed his legs and dragged him onto the floor, tearing at his pants. He thrust his hand between his legs, squeezing his tender parts painfully, causing him to cry out. The boy struggled to free himself, pounding his fists on his face and chest, shrieking in pain. The man grunted, swinging his hand and slamming it into the boy’s face, stopping his shouts of protest and pain. He straddled the boy, flipping him roughly onto his stomach, freeing himself from his pants and started to thrust himself toward the boy, who screamed in pain, fear and incomprehension. The man was groaning and writhing against him and the boy screamed again.

The man suddenly gave a surprised cry and fell forward onto the boy. Hands were pulling him off and the boy crawled crabwise away, panicked, disoriented, pressing his shuddering body into a corner of the room. He could hear the heavy thud of fists hitting flesh repeatedly and the grunts and moans of men fighting. He curled up into a ball covering his head with his arms, crying, breathless, blood running down his leg. He lost consciousness.

He was being carried, a deep voice speaking to him softly. He was in agony and his entire body felt battered and bruised. He drifted into unconsciousness again. When he woke, he felt a warm wet cloth lightly washing him, cleaning away the blood, dirt and emissions. Gently a clean shirt was pulled over his head and he was covered with blankets. ‘Sleep,’ said the deep quiet voice. He eyes fluttered open, saw a figure bent over him, a bearded face and shock of light hair. He could not keep his eyes open and lapsed again into oblivion. 

He woke suddenly. It was night, and he was in his cot in the stable. The room was in deep shadow, the only light coming from a candle burning in a glass container set on a barrel. He breathed in the familiar deep earthy scents of the stable, warm and comforting. A figure stirred, and he sucked in his breath, struggling to sit up.

‘Easy,’ said the same deep voice. ‘Not too fast.’ He dropped back against the bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what had happened. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ the deep voice said quietly. ‘The man was an animal. He had no right to touch you.’

The boy’s eyes darted around the room fearfully. ‘He is not coming back,’ the man said, understanding the boy’s anxiety. ‘He will never hurt you again.’

The man folded a blanket and placed it against the back of the bed. ‘There’s stew. Sit up slowly.’ 

He lifted a bowl from a small brazier where it was warming, stirring it with a spoon. The boy placed his hands on either side and pushed his body up, wincing as he did so. He sat gingerly and looked up at the man sitting on the chair beside the bed. The man placed the bowl in his hands, holding onto it for a moment. It was warm and smelled good. 

‘Can you do it?’ the man questioned. The boy nodded and took the bowl, holding it steadily and lifting the spoon to his mouth. He was always hungry. 

The man placed a plate with bread and cheese on the table and sat back, watching him eat. He noticed a book on the table and reached over to pick it up. The boy froze and watched him anxiously. 

‘May I?’ he asked politely, lifting the book carefully and thumbing through it. 

‘These are wonderful stories.’ I read them too when I was a lad. 

You can read?’ he asked. The boy nodded. 

'And can you make letters too?’ The boy nodded again. 

The man smiled at him. ‘That’s good.’

He recovered, and the drunken blue caped soldier never did return. Nor did any other of the men approach him. But the man who saved him did come back. 

Lucien turned the letter over in his hands, remembering the last time he had seen Gatien. He had come before he was deployed on maneuvers with a group of cadets. He couldn’t recall where Gatien had told him he was going. 

He watched the soldier as he had left him, striding toward his big black horse. He had to duck to go through the doorway, broad shoulders and considerable breath of chest filling out his custom fitted leather tunic. The blue cape swung from his shoulder and his gleaming polished boots thudded against the floorboards. He was pulling gloves on his strong hands, lifting his hat to his head, shadowing the deep set blue eyes and strong contours of his bearded face. His sword and muskets, luminous in the sunlight, were sheathed and holstered. He looked invincible.

He thought of another he had lost - a girl. He could see her, strange iridescent blue eyes, wild mane of golden chestnut hair, clambering down the tree outside her bedroom to run into the woods with him. She had caught him stealing food in her kitchen and hid him, so he would not be caught. They had become friends, in the manner that lonely children from sad and troubled homes find each other. But one day soldiers from the King’s regiment had taken her away and she had never returned.

But, the man was waiting for a reply to his insolent question.

‘Yes,’ said he said, ‘I can read.’


	2. Day 1 or 2 or 3.....

She had noticed him for the past few days, always in different locations, in the entrance to an alleyway, sitting in a darkened tavern corner, or in the shadows of a building. Tall, well built, dark hair falling into his dark eyes. He didn’t look as though he slept outside as did many of the older boys his age and his clothes were of a better make and cut. So, he might have a purse that afforded him a room at night and other luxuries.

‘Care for some company?’ she asked him, blue eyes twinkling. He looked down at her in surprise. Hah, she thought. He didn’t see me coming. She leaned against him moving her hips suggestively, and looked up into his face, widening her eyes and parting her lips. 

She was tiny, barely coming to his shoulder. He thought she couldn’t be more than 15 and probably closer to 13 years of age. She was leaning against him, hand on his chest. He looked down at her, smiling slightly, eyes boring into hers, and trapping her hand that had reached into his pocket in search of his purse. 

She stopped smiling and tried to yank her hand out of his, but he gripped it harder, leaning down close to her face, eyes narrowed. She struggled harder, becoming panicked at the darkness in his eyes, pushing against him and slapping at him with her free hand. 

‘Let me go, you bastard,’ she snarled at him. He laughed at her and released her hand suddenly. She lost her balance and stumbled backward. She turned to run.   
‘Wait,’ he called to her. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’ She stopped, turning back to him, eyes coy once again. 

‘Not for that,’ he held the door for her and after a brief hesitation, she sauntered past him, head high and they entered the tavern. He bought them both wine and food. He watched her while she ate hungrily, and he pushed his uneaten stew towards her. She glanced at him, and then drew the dish towards her. Might as well eat when it’s offered, she thought. The food was hot and better than what she often had to pick from or fight over with dogs who also fed off the leavings thrown into the alley. Who knows when she would eat this well again? She finished and sat back watching him warily.

‘You are new to Paris,’ she said. He arched an eyebrow at her, ‘What gave me away?’ he asked, feigning bewilderment. 

She chuckled at him. ‘You look too clean.’ 

‘Where do you live?’ he asked her. 

‘Looking for lodging?’ she asked him slyly, picking at her teeth.

‘Looking for friends,’ he replied. They studied each other for a moment, and then she grinned. Her blue eyes danced at him, her face transformed and infectious in its loveliness and expression of delight. He couldn’t help but laugh in return.

She was small and quick, and he watched her dart through crowds, her laughing rosebud mouth, flying mass of blond curls haloed her rounded pink cheeks and twinkling blue eyes - diverting the attentions of men away from their purses, wallets, watches and cases. Tender hearted noble women, stooping to help the child who had tripped and fallen at their feet were gently relieved of their jeweled hair combs that adorned their styled upswept hair, or necklaces surrounding their soft necks. If the results of her small fingers were detected, he would quickly provide a diversion, a sudden shove, or feet extended to trip and otherwise delay the shout that would bring the city guard to alert for a tiny blond girl running through the streets. He would catch up; grab her hand and race towards the alleyways. They tumbled into the safety of the rough streets that led into the Court, laughing and gasping for breath. 

Like many in the Court, her share of what she stole or earned was enough to buy a cot for the night and food to keep starvation at a low growl rather than a full throated roar. The Court was filled with those whose work product was managed and distributed by others and who lived their predictably short lives in daily increments. When objectives did not conflict, members of this changeable family adopted a fickle concern for each other, quickly displaced if one’s advantages tipped over a mark on the invisible scales that balanced life among the residents of the Court.

She divided with him whatever she earned from his timely assistance and they shared food and on many late nights, she crept into his room and nestled against his back as he slept. He would pull the blanket over her and reach for her small hand. He never solicited intimacies from her. He listened to her as she recounted stories of the Court, how she came to live there, her dead mother and her memories of the father who had abandoned them. She was lonely in the way that children are when they learn, too early, that their survival depends on knowing they cannot trust anyone and yet yearn hungrily to trust someone.

She managed to not work as a prostitute, but there were times when the weather turned foul and fewer pockets were walking the streets waiting to be plucked by her adept fingers. Men however, were never diverted by the weather from the pursuits of sinful pleasures, and a tiny girl, resembling more a child, was a particularly delectable morsel for certain men. Of all her variable occupations, this one worried him the most. She affected an air of certainty and toughness that he knew to be a lie. 

One early night, while making her way to the Court from a day’s work in the Marais, a man loomed from the shadows. She didn’t slow her gait but swerved to avoid his outstretched hand.

‘No monsieur, I am not working tonight,’ smiling apologetically to counter the intensity in his face. She had seen that look before and the first prick of fear intensified quickly. She would need to run. 

But he was quicker and easily gripped her arm pulling her into the thin shadows between the two buildings. She knew better than to scream, but she struggled in a vain effort to free herself. Tears filled her eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time she was forced, but the brutality of the act always left an unseen wound to scab over. 

The man was impatient with her resistance and gripped her by the throat with one hand, pinning her against the cold wall, the other hand fumbling with his pants, pulling himself free and then was under her dress, clawing at her sensitive and tender skin. She gasped in pain, twisting her neck in his clawed hand.

Suddenly he cried out as he was yanked away from her. She fell to the ground, instinctively starting to crawl away. The man had been thrown to the opposite wall of the narrow space with a sickening thud as his head hit the wall. He slid down and instantly there was a dark figure crouched over him. The man raised his hands in defense, grunting as blows were delivered, hard and efficient, and soon he was silent, the only sounds the dull thud of repeated strikes against a body. She crawled toward the crouching figure grabbing his shoulders, arms, whatever she could hold onto as he shrugged her off and continued his methodical assault. 

‘Stop!’ she gasped. ‘Stop! please – you cannot kill him, the guards…..’ she trailed off, unable to summon anymore strength or breath. She was shaking, crying and couldn’t stand. He turned to look at her, eyes narrowed, dark and feral, lip lifted into a snarl, teeth bared. 

‘Please,’ she whispered. The death of a noble man in an alleyway would bring the city guard into the Court and many would be hurt or killed. It didn’t matter what he did to a whore. Only his injuries or death would signify.

He left the unconscious figure and turned to her, helping her stand and then lifting her into his arms. She drifted in and out of consciousness as he carried her across the city and into the relative safety of the passageways in the Court. She woke in a darkened room, a warm cloth bathing her, wiping dirt and blood from her legs, arms and face. 

‘Sleep,’ he said. She raised her thin arms to him and he slid onto the bed next to her, gathering her to him and holding her. She curled into him, crying herself to sleep, his arms wrapped around her, fingers stroking her hair. 

She recovered and was soon at work stalking the pockets and purses that wandered the better streets of Paris. He was busy with the older boys, working with more seasoned veterans of the Court. They never spoke of that night. She knew he would not stay in the Court. The world of stealing, the sale of bodies and feigning illness and injury was not what he wanted, and he had learned all that he needed. He would move off into a more complex and sinister criminal underworld. She did not think she would see him again and felt immeasurably sad.

‘Do you remember how to find me?’ he asked her again, tipping her chin up to look into his serious face. She nodded, trying to stop the tears that filled her eyes. He slipped a heavy bag of coin into her pocket. 

‘Find a safe room,’ he was issuing orders now. ‘This will cover it for a long time. He put a bag of coin in her hand. 

'There will be more. Do you remember how to find me?’ he insisted she repeat the instructions back to him. He held her to him, arms tight around her. ‘I will always come if you need me,’ he whispered. And then he was gone.

‘Flea,’ the deep voice was annoyed. She had been silent too long. 

She looked up into Porthos’ dark face. 

'Did you ever know a man by the name Lucien Grimaud. It may have been a long time ago. Tall, dark hair.'

It had been many years since she had seen Porthos. He looked older but still handsome. Another man who had left the Court for a different world. Why had she stayed? He was looking at her expectantly.

‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I never knew a man by that description or name. The man you describe was never in the Court.’


	3. Blue cloaked soldiers....

Lucien stood in the shadows and stared at a building across the road. It was a house, three stories, with a narrow entrance. Wide shallow steps led to the double front doors covered by a portico. To the left a narrow drive extended to the back of the house. He didn’t know what was behind it. 

He had arrived in Paris almost two weeks ago. He had first gone to the Court of Miracles, a legendary place for thieves, pickpockets, and purveyors of scams and other artists of illegal trades to practice their skills, find compatriots and hide. He wouldn’t be there long. He had already learned most of what it had to offer, but it was a convenient place to stay for a short time. And, he had met the most extraordinary girl – he wasn’t yet ready to leave.

He had been watching the house for several days. There was an older man and woman who seemed to care for the house. He saw no one else. The house was quiet, no one coming or going. Would the old woman let him in? He had Gatien’s letter and the house deeds, but it seemed unlikely that he could so easily assume residence. 

For that reason, he had arranged for the irritable man who delivered Gatien’s letter and copy of the will to meet him at the house. There should be no misunderstanding or obstacle.

An hour later he was alone in the drawing room, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, looking at portraits of portly wigged men and women in fine dresses with dainty shawls falling off their shoulders and holding little dogs, or attended by small children. Who were these people? Gatien’s relatives or ancestors? He studied their rounded faces, wide surprised eyes and plump bodies. It was difficult to imagine the big affable battle-hardened soldier he had known in this company.

He wandered through the rooms - dining room, study with a small library. Gatien had brought books to him from this library. Upstairs there were several bedrooms, with small balconies overlooking a garden. He knew which one was Gatien’s. There were books scattered on tables, boots lined up on the hearth and two swords hung above the fireplace. The large bed must have been custom made for the soldier’s huge frame. From the balcony, he could see the small stable and one additional outbuilding. He didn’t know its purpose. The top floor was reserved for servants. The elderly couple lived there.

His last residence had been in the back of a stable and included a small cot.

He returned to the drawing room. It was almost dusk, the room darkening, shadows forming in the corners of the room. He built a small fire, poured wine from a carafe the woman had left for him. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa. He was tired and let his thoughts drift to what he knew and what he didn’t know. 

 

The big Musketeer was stretched out on the grass, eyes closed, head supported by saddle, listening to the gurgling splashing sounds of a nearby creek and Lucien’s voice. The day was warm, and he had returned a few days before from a long mission to the border. He was sleepy. 

‘Your pronunciation is excellent,’ he told his reader. Lucien slanted his eyes at him and grinned.

‘Since you were asleep, how could you know anything about my pronunciation,’ he said drily.

‘I was not asleep,’ the soldier protested. And then he corrected, ‘not that asleep.’

‘Greek always puts you to sleep,’ Lucien said. ‘It puts me to sleep and I’m reading it.’

‘Well, what would you read to stay awake?’ inquired the big man, smiling and keeping his eyes closed.

’Poetry, economics, more battles,’ Lucien had diverse interests, but Greek was not first among them.

‘The Odyssey is a poem and has plenty of battles,’ asserted the soldier. ‘Keep reading,’ he ordered.

Lucien sighed, but picked up the book again. He didn’t really mind. He liked reading aloud. It reminded him of reading to another. A young girl he had known when they were both still children. She had taught him to read and they read to each other in sheltered places near the lake on her father’s estate. But that had been a long time ago.

He looked at the soldier stretched out on the blanket, legs crossed at the ankles, arms cradling his head on the saddle. The warm breeze was ruffling his dark blond hair and he could see the steady rise and fall of his big chest. He smiled and bent his head to the book.

His name was Gatien d’Autevielle and he was in the King’s regiment. He had been among the first members of that elite group. The third son in an aristocratic family, his mother’s choice was for him to become a priest and his father’s choice was a commission in the army.

Neither appealed to him, but when the King’s company was formed, his cousin, Arnaud Treville asked him to consider joining the regiment. He and his cousin had been close as boys, were tutored together and spent much of their time hunting and training with sword masters and marksmen. A regiment dedicated as the King’s personal guard seemed a good fit. Gatien was an affable man, tall, well built, strong and proficient with sword and musket. The King’s guard was respected for discipline, training and combat skills. He loved the soldier’s life, protecting King and country, and his father was pleased at his son’s service to the King. He was proud to be in a regiment synonymous with a strict code of honor.

So, his disgust and response to the attack on the boy was not surprising. His intuition about the man had proved correct. He had noticed the man’s narrowed predatory eyes following the boy as he dumped wood next to the fireplace and swept the floor.

Gatien had seen the drunken man watch the boy, because he too had noticed the boy. He was beautiful, on the verge of leaving childhood behind. Silky dark hair fell forward onto his forehead, begging a mother’s hand to sweep it back. His eyes were a swirl of brown and green colors, golden highlights glinting invitingly. He was tall for his age, and although he was thin, the bony outlines of his chest and shoulders foretold a man of considerable breath. He was going to be handsome.

Gatien was a man who noticed men. But he was not a man who preyed upon boys. The intentions of his comrade toward the youth were repulsive and his defense of the boy required no review or hesitation.

It was the book on the boy’s bedside that had caught his attention. This poor and starving stable boy could read. And he was reading a book that Gatien had read at a similar age. That had intrigued him and after asking a few questions, he realized the boy was uncommonly intelligent and more importantly, curious.

When he returned to the village a few weeks later, he brought with him a pair of boots, a jacket and a few books. The boy’s face lit up at the sight of the books, but backing away from the big soldier carefully. What was wanted from him for these books? The man saw the concern in the boy’s eyes and smiled kindly at him.

The Musketeer handed the books to him and said, ‘I would like to go hunting. You must know the woods well. Would you show me?’

Lucien frowned. He trapped small animals in the woods, and dug wild vegetables. He had several places to hide from the lord’s stewards and guards who hunted poachers. If caught, he could be hung on the spot, or have a hand cut off. He looked worriedly at the Musketeer.

‘I’m in the King’s regiment,’ Gatien told him. ‘There are no restrictions for me. I can hunt wherever I like.’

The boy did know the woods and was skilled with a slingshot. His traps were well constructed, maintained and hidden. As Gatien watched him skin the rabbits expertly and prepare a fire, it occurred to him that the boy probably spent most of his time in the woods, sleeping there as well. Was there no family?

As they ate together, he watched the boy carefully divided his portion, saving part of his food. He was feeding someone, probably his mother. The boy did not speak about his mother. Gatien knew she lived in one of the huts at the edge of the village – where soldiers went – and he knew why the soldiers went to these huts. He wondered if the boy knew that his father might be among those soldiers. He never asked these questions.

The boy was lonely, as are many children abandoned by fathers or mothers too poor or sick to care for themselves much less any of their offspring. These children were often sold into the servitude of others – with few questions asked as to their indentured occupations. This boy had learned to survive while teetering on the brink of both physical starvation and hopeless destitution. Gatien could not change the past. He could only hope to do enough to bring change to the inevitability of the outcome.

So he brought books and helped the boy with mathematics and history. Then, one day, Gatien brought a Latin reader and grammar book, telling him, ‘It’s time you were properly educated.’

That was the beginning and nuns in the abbey got involved.

‘Sister Agatha has arranged a tutor for you, a Jesuit,’ Gatien told Lucien, ‘I don’t know the man, but she speaks highly of him and he is willing to meet you.’

Lucien nodded but said nothing. Sister Agatha wanted him to become a priest. It seemed a profession as unlikely as him becoming a nun. But he was grateful to her. In return, he helped her in her gardens and with the abbey accounts. He audited the accounts, correcting her innumerable mathematical and recording mistakes, creating neat and orderly records. Upon receiving these records in his Paris office, the priest supervising the abbey had been astonished at her achievement in overcoming her considerable inability with the abbey accounts. No doubt, it was a miracle. Sister Agatha beamed at him.

No, he would not offend her by bluntly rejecting her priestly hopes for him. And he enjoyed his lessons with the priest. The tutor was more accustomed to his youthful and noble pupils trying to avoid their teacher and plotting their escape to more adventuresome pursuits. In contrast, he found Lucien waiting for him, assignments completed and ready for new work.

Gatien thought he should consider joining the regiment. He brought a sword and musket and they started different studies. The youth had a natural grace to his movements and learned quickly. While Gatien was away he practiced with the musket and long gun and was becoming an excellent marksman. Though solitary by necessity, the boy had an air of self-sufficiency, intelligence, capability and awareness. He looked steadily at others, not sliding his eyes away. These were traits found among those who men followed. He thought the boy could do well in the regiment. Not all cadets were offspring of the nobility and he would have some influence.

 

He woke suddenly, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He sat still listening to the sounds in the street outside the house and the creaking of the house itself. He sat up. He was alone in a house in which Gatien had lived. Perhaps his family visited him here. He had eaten meals at the big table and sat with friends in the drawing room with a crackling fire, drinking wine and talking. He would have brought lovers here.

Lucien had no friends, and was shunned, as was his mother, by most of the villagers. When he got bigger he worked for the innkeeper. For this work, he received a cot at the back of the stable and one meal a day. He tried to care for his mother, bringing her clean water, sweeping the floor and collecting her few items of clothing for washing. She sat at the small table, spooning the food he brought to her slowly into her mouth, her thin body hunched in the chair. She didn’t ask where the food came from or where he slept most nights. She rarely talked and spent most of the day sleeping. She often had bruises after the blue-cloaked soldiers came, and money they threw on the floor as they left never lasted.

He did not ask himself if she loved him.

Tonight he would sleep in Gatien’s room in Gatien’s house. A house that now belonged to him. Tomorrow he would go to the Musketeer garrison. Gatien thought his skills and education would qualify him, and he had Gatien’s letter to Captain Treville. Lucien thought it unlikely he would be considered to be a cadet.  
With the instincts of bloodhounds, nobles and aristocrats could detect the scent of one’s rank in the world. It would not matter what letters he carried or what clothes he wore. The commanders of the King’s regiment would see a poor peasant. There would be no shortage of such applicants. Gatien understood nothing of being poor nor did he fully comprehend the ingrained prejudice against those so branded.

But he would go to the garrison.


	4. 'Strong reasons make strong actions....'

‘Watch your feet Lucien!’ Gatien yelled at him. ‘Do you think your enemies are going to wait to fight with you on level ground with nothing to stumble over?’

He was trying to watch his feet. And, he was trying not to stumble. And, he was trying to watch the soldier chasing him, who was trying to kill him with his sword - or rather, pretending to try to kill him. They were using training swords. Gatien didn’t trust Lucien’s level of experience to not result in injury to either one of them.   
‘Face me dammit,’ barked his teacher. ‘You cannot wait for the ballroom floor to slide around on like the King’s dance master in a swordfight!’

They were both breathless from the fight. But Gatien knew how to battle when out of breath and out of strength. He blocked the young man’s attempt to jump away from him, swinging the wooden sword within a hair’s breadth of his head. Lucien ducked swiftly and did a quick roll, landing on his feet and thrusting the wooden sword toward the big man’s chest. Gatien blocked it easily and hard, knocking it from Lucien’s hands. Lucien froze.

‘What? No strategy for retrieving the sword? Ready to die so soon?’ the soldier advanced on him.

He got his feet under him, hesitated long enough for the big man to be in mid-stride and raising the sword and then he hurled himself forward, driving his head into the man’s mid-section. It was like hitting a wall. Pain exploded in his head and neck.

Gatien grunted at the unexpected assault on his gut – but he did not go down. He bent over, grabbed his attacker by his waist, picked him up upside down and tossed him into the grass, as though he were a sack of grain inconveniently left in his pathway. He landed on his back, senseless, the breath knocked out of him. His hands scrabbled at the ground and one hand closed on the sword. He rolled quickly and held it up to Gatien’s chest as the big man leaned over him to deliver the fatal blow.

‘You’re dead!’ he gasped, exhausted and dropped the sword, falling onto his back, gulping air and fighting nausea. Suddenly he was yanked off the ground and was staring up at the sky, flying through the air, dropping and sinking into deep cold water. He fought his way to the surface, spewing water from his mouth, shaking his head to clear his vision. Gatien was grinning at him broadly from the shore.

‘And you are drowned!’ called the Musketeer. The big man dropped to sit on the ground, one leg bent, the other extended, balancing on his arms. They were both breathing heavily.

Lucien fell back in the water and floated trying to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure he could stand and drag himself from the lake. He could hear Gatien laughing.   
‘Swimming away is your plan?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I have a musket!’ Lucien groaned and lifted his head.

‘Surrender?’ asked the Musketeer politely waving the musket at him. Lucien grimaced, rolled to his stomach and dived. Under water, he swam the width of the lake, surfacing quietly in the reeds at the far shore. Gatien was up on his feet, scanning the water. Lucien crawled from the reeds, and in the cover of the shrubs crept out of the water to the far shore.

‘Escaped!’ he yelled. Gatien roared at him, collapsing back onto the ground, laughing. He plunged the wooden sword into the ground and held up his hands in defeat.

He dove back into the water and swam to the opposite shore. Gatien watched the young man stand and walk to the water’s edge, pulling his legs through the water, hands pushing his hair back, water streaming down his arms and body. He was now as tall as the Musketeer and had filled out the promise of his broad shoulders and chest, a tapering torso and strong arms. He stopped and dropped his hands to his knees, bent over and breathing hard to catch his breath. He looked up quizzically at his teacher. Maybe this lesson wasn’t yet over.

‘Let’s eat!’ the big Musketeer called cheerfully to him. 

Lucien stood in the shadow of a large tree watching the arched entrance to the Musketeer garrison. He had been watching as young and older boys, young and older men entered the yard. Several training exercises were underway, and potential cadets were lined up like nine pins to be tested. And, like nine pins, they were being knocked down.

He was nervous, his heart hammering hard in his chest, hands cold and clammy. It now seemed unthinkable that he could enter the garrison yard much less try to enter the regiment. His entire life experience was a consequence of blue-cloaked soldiers. All that he feared or hated or loved was entangled with these soldiers and that included the soldier who had encouraged him to seek a life in this company.

‘Not all men in the regiment are like this,’ Gatien quietly remarked to him one day. They were sitting outside the stable, Gatien cleaning his musket and Lucien cleaning tack. They could hear the men in the tavern. When the soldiers were here, mothers kept their daughters inside and village men did not convene for an evening’s ale and talk. Lucien knew that soon they would leave to wander through the village toward the small huts.

‘There are more men who try to live up to the honor expected of them than these louts,’ said the Musketeer, his lip curling in scorn as he glanced angrily toward the tavern. ‘The Captain does not always have the last word on accepting some aristocrat’s brat.’

‘Were you an aristocrat’s brat?’ inquired Lucien teasing and trying to change the subject. He was acutely aware of the men in the tavern, the distance to the small huts, and the chasm that separated his life from Gatien’s understanding. The Musketeer smiled but was not diverted. He studied the youth as he bent over his chore, feeling a rush of affection and concern.

‘You could make friends Lucien. You need not be so alone in this world.’

He winced in discomfort at Gatien’s observation and the kindness in his voice. His mother’s occupation stained him as unsuitable for the honest village folk. For as long as he could remember, he had lived alone, mostly in the woods, tending his traps and sometimes not speaking to another person for days.

‘What happened to you was wrong and the man was punished. But no one can stop men from being with whores, Lucien,’ the big man’s voice was gentle. ‘It was not of your doing and you provide for her as best you can. You must separate yourself from this.’

Lucien did not look at him and rubbed the leather in his hands hard. He didn’t want the man to see the tears in his eyes, or the flush of humiliation to his face.

 

Now, he waited, trying to steady his breathing and thudding heart. He wiped his hands on his pants and watched the others spar with sword, shoot at targets, and fight with Musketeers. There were several older soldiers watching critically and making notes, several calling instructions. Catcalls and insults were also flying through the air in attempts to distract focus. The day was hot and dry, dust billowing up making combatants cough and their eyes tear. The would-be cadets were struggling to stay on their feet and strike at their targets.

He faced a dark man, with curly hair. He was a big man, but Gatien had been bigger and very fast. The dark man was quick also and Lucien, struggling to subdue his nerves, barely managed to parry the first few sword thrusts. He stepped back, slowed his breathing, shifting and balancing his weight on moving feet. He watched the Musketeer move around him, studying his movements and learning his signs The big man occasionally nodded at him in approval and he was beginning to enjoy the contest as he had enjoyed sparring with Gatien. And then, he heard it.

A voice, from years ago, calling to him, mocking and insulting - hey, boy – where are you? Come here boy!

He tripped and inadvertently half turned to the sound. The dark man frowned but held his sword.

He was there, sitting on a bench, staring at him, cruel mouth laughing and drawn back in a malicious grin. It was the drunken man who had stumbled into the barn.  
Lucien’s breath caught in his throat, and his chest heaved. He looked around slowly and saw the blue-cloaked men sitting or standing watching him. A few were laughing together, and one called to him.

How’s your mother boy?

He turned back to the dark man but didn’t see him. A foul acrid taste filled his mouth and he fought the urge to retch. Were they all laughing at him? Humiliation flooded his body and he felt its heat in his face - visible to all.

The dark man was watching him carefully. Was that pity in his eyes? The man shook his head imperceptibly and raised the sword to continue. He didn’t understand the man’s meaning. Maybe he was just impatient to finish the match.

Lucien took a deep breath quieting his anxiety, narrowing his dark eyes in concentration, setting his mouth in a hard line. He slanted his eyes in quiet anger at his opponent and raised his sword.

They battled hard, the dark man pushing him repeatedly into a deadlock with him, only for Lucien to parry, slide, duck or slip away from defeat. While he didn’t rout the dark man, he didn’t surrender either. When the captain finally ended the match, they were both breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

He could hear the laughing continue as he sheathed the sword and collected his jacket. He did not notice other men who were silent, or watching him curiously, or commenting quietly to each other, wondering as to the source of his skill.

He returned to the house, heated water till it was barely tolerable and scrubbed away the dirt and sweat. He sat, in the cooling water in the empty house, his mind quieting, the solitude reassuring and sheltering. He went to the drawing room, lit candles and built a fire to warm the cold room. He wandered to the kitchen looking for food and found a tray the woman had prepared for him. He took it back into the drawing room and returned to the sofa. He ate cold chicken and bread. There was cheese and a small pie. He drank deeply from the wine carafe.

He could not suppress the sudden intense need for Gatien, to see him shoulder his big frame through the door, kick off his boots, loosen his tunic and reach over to tousle his hair. He had not yet cried for him – but Gatien had not expected that from him. He pushed away the awareness of his loss.

He banked the fire and took the candle up the stairs with him. He lay in Gatien’s bed listening to the quiet of the house. Tomorrow he would hire an estate agent and rent the house. He wasn’t going to stay in Paris. He was going to La Havre. He intended to look for work in the port. He would live a different life. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he thought it would be among those who held a more honest opinion of their trades, be it legal or not, who knew who they were, and did not pretend to unmerited nobilities, but who practiced a different variety of honor. 

Elsewhere….

‘I’m seeing double,’ declared Aramis, glancing back and forth between the two men opposite him. ‘It’s usually only Athos looking morose and drinking. Now it’s Porthos too!’

He rounded on Athos, narrowing his eyes accusingly, ‘what have you done to Porthos?’ he demanded.

Athos snorted, barely amused, ‘I was wondering the same,’ he said eyeing the big man. ‘I thought I owned this part.’

‘What? No fun today in the sparring yard?’ inquired D’Artagnan. ‘Or did someone actually get the best of you?’ he teased, laughing at his own joke. The big Musketeer turned his full expression on the younger, and smaller, man.

‘Never mind,’ said D’Artagnan hastily and dropped both his grin and his laughter.

‘Anyone good?’ asked Athos.

‘One,’ replied Porthos, still studying the ale in his tankard. The men waited for him. He would explain further or not at all.

‘One,’ the Musketeer repeated. ‘Very good, the best we’ve seen so far. And I will wager his shooting skills are as good too.’

‘Well that’s excellent,’ exclaimed Aramis. ‘Why the long face?’

‘I don’t think he’ll be back,’ said Porthos, draining his ale and looking around for the serving girl to bring him more. ‘Something happened.’

‘What?’ asked Aramis, suppressing his impatience at the slow deliverance of the explanation. ‘Who wouldn’t want to be with us? We are such excellent company. Except,’ he pointed a finger in Porthos’ face, ’when you look like this.’

‘What happened?’ asked Athos, watching Porthos. It was unusual to see the big man troubled. Angry and ready to smash something – yes. Troubled – not so often.

‘Things were said – about his mother and something else, but I couldn’t make it out,’ Porthos said. He looked at the men around him. ‘I think his mother is a prostitute. Some of the men may know her.’

Silence fell. Aramis looked away and Porthos continued to study his empty tankard. The serving girl appeared and poured more ale, noted the still and silent men and went away.

‘He wouldn’t be the first among us whose mother was a prostitute,’ said Aramis quietly. Porthos nodded.

‘He wouldn’t necessarily have known that,’ observed Athos.

‘I should have said something to him,’ Porrthos said. ‘I could see it rattled him.’

‘Who was it?’ asked D’Artagnan.

‘Boucher,’ Porthos replied, his lip curling up at the name.

‘Ah,’ Aramis gave a mirthless laugh, ‘you should have made them fight each other – that might have rid him and Treville of the same problem,’ snorted Aramis. ‘Boucher is a complete bastard.’

‘Not a bastard,’ said Athos impassive, but sympathetic. ‘Just not the first son and his influential father convinced a minister to force Treville to take him. It happens.’

The men were silent again, each remembering their history that accompanied them to their current circumstances. Tiny dioramas unspooled, drawing sorrow or happiness, shame or yearning. They were battle hardened men, rendered contemplative and vulnerable with memories.

He’ll be back,’ Aramis said to Porthos about the young man. ‘He’ll have been charmed by your charisma, wit and the fact that he almost defeated you.’ He beamed at Porthos encouragingly. 

Porthos nodded, but he was certain the promising swordsman would not come back. He had seen the young man’s face. For reasons known to him alone, he understood what had occurred.


	5. 'When a pirate grows rich enough they make him a prince'

He sat in the corner of the room, watching the four men at the table. They were studying a detailed schematic drawing of the cargo holds for a sea faring ship and listening to one man describing events of the day before in Le Havre. The man Bonnaire had been duped, by Musketeers, into boarding a Spanish ship, instead of the ship he had commissioned that was to sail to the Bahamas and unbelievable wealth and prosperity.

The man telling this story wore the uniform of the city guard. He had overheard the details as the men involved, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, discussed it among themselves. Now he was here, relaying the information to a man who would pay him for it. Sarazin listened intently, chuckling at the ridiculous Bonnaire and how his misfortune would result in fortune for Sarazin and his associates.

There were three other men at the table. One was a lawyer, the man who would draw up the agreements. The third was a man called Labarge. It was interesting that Labarge was present as he worked for another man. He was striking out on his own with Sarazin in this venture. He wondered what would happen to the big man if his master in the criminal underworld of Paris found out about his traitorous endeavor. He was a fearsome sight, taller than most men, thick in the neck and chest, huge arms and hands the size of platters. He was surprisingly agile for his size, merciless, and killed easily, men, women, children. When he walked the streets, people moved to the opposite side, pressing themselves against the wall and avoiding his eyes.

But the man who interested Grimaud was the priest. He was listening to Sarazin’s plan for negotiating with the King’s minister to establish colonies in the Bahamas. Sarazin understood that the King did not want his involvement known. The King was aware the cargo in these ships was destined for Bahamian plantations. He was King of a Catholic country and understood the tangled relationship Rome had with countries that traded in slaves. While his Majesty had no interest in getting involved in those disputes, the riches described by Bonnaire had been too tempting and the King wanted the money to fund armaments in his ongoing disputes with Spain. The priest had his own interests.

‘We have two ships,’ said the priest, ‘We need the agreement to specify the interest we will receive for use of them.’ Sarazin nodded and wrote a figure down, passing it to the priest. The man nodded, said he would return in two days to sign the papers.

As the priest stood up, he noticed Grimaud sitting at the back table. The priest hesitated, studying Grimaud uneasily. He returned his gaze steadily, looking at the priest with interest. He hadn’t known such a man would get involved in slave trading. The justification was to use the profits to fund the Church’s charities in the poor districts of Paris. The irony of this rationale was not lost on Grimaud.

The priest frowned saying to Sarazin, ‘I thought this was a private meeting.’ Sarazin glanced up at him and then back to Grimaud who was sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap. ‘He’s with me. He knows the ports,’ said Sarazin tersely and turned back to the table and the drawing.

 

xxxx

Lucien Grimaud did know the French ports and trading vessels from all parts of the world, including the West Indies as well as the captains and ships that sailed there. He had left Paris some years ago and went to work as a dockworker, in La Havre, Marseille and Rouen, working the pulley ropes and horse teams that operated the giant cranes loading and unloading cargo. He was a hard worker and was soon commanding his own crew. His work ethic, literacy, and quick intelligence drew the attention of the harbormaster and he earned a place in the harbormaster’s office. He quickly rose within those ranks. He was well respected, kept his own counsel, drew little attention to himself, was reliable and his work was excellent.

He was at the center of port operations, shipping routes, regulations, navigation, ships, tides, captains, cargo, and transportation routes to and from all major ports into Paris. He knew cargo holds, ship design and where forward-thinking captains stored their illegal trading goods underneath and between their legal cargos. He was authorized with the legal authority to board, inspect and impound ships and cargo, and penalize captains. He was in a position to reward captains.

He knew the warehouses in La Havre and Marseille where guns from the Ottomans were stored, spices from Asia, opium from Indian and China, wool and silks from Italy. He knew the transport schedules for whale oil from Rouen to Paris and the rivermen, a proud and dangerous confederation of men with low boats that owned the waterways into Paris and the highway men who controlled the roads. He also knew the daily operations for the gold from Africa that came into the ports of La Havre and Rouen bound for the banking houses in those cities.

He spent his days, and many evenings in the varied company of merchants, seaman, captains, rivermen, and privateers - those captains who were semi-employed by governments for certain nautical mischief attacking competitor ships, ports and interests. He drank with pirates - thieves with a boat - who, while not officially sanctioned, had the unauthorized approval of their governments. Grimaud had allies and partners from all of these companies. He was a pivot for all port activity, most of it legal and some less legal. It was of some irony that he had a reputation for reliability and fair treatment not only among the honest folk in the merchant industry, but among the less honest folk as well.

‘Grimaud!’ a booming voice lifted itself above the din of the wharf and dropped down to him. Lucien turned to see a bearded giant shouldering his way through the heaving mass of people on the docks. He did it easily as he was at least a head taller that most men, so his shoulders merely whacked the heads of those in his way. The rest scrambled to move.

‘le Clerc!’ called Grimaud, grinning broadly. He shifted the case of papers and extended his hand to the man approaching him. He grasped Grimaud’s outstretched hand and pulled the man close to him, entrapping him in a bear’s hug and thumping Grimaud’s back.

Jacques le Clerc was in the family business of privateering. This second generation son was one of the most successful captains sailing the seas of the West Indies, and the coast of Africa. Reckless, brazen and smart, le Clerc managed a fleet of privateer craft operating under the authority of the French government. He also commanded pirate ships for the same purposes. His antics were legendary - slightly bored waiting for a ships carrying Spanish gold, he kept his men busy raiding shoreline settlements along the Bahamas. He worried both Spanish and English ships and settlements and was bold enough to operate in the Mediterranean, much to the dismay of the Muslim corsairs. 

Having lost a bet to le Clerc during a drunken card game, Grimaud had sailed with him on a venture to the West Indies – but not willingly. He had awakened swinging gently in a hammock in a darkened place. For a moment, between his throbbing head and roiling stomach, Grimaud thought a hammock was a peaceful place to die from a hangover. Then, the smell of the sea, the sound of the gulls, and the voices of the men above him snapped his eyes open. Captain le Clerc had roared with laughter when he stumbled up to the deck and found himself at sea.

It had taken over a year to return to port – during which he had made more money than he had ever seen. It had only almost cost him his life, and there were too many drunken nights with le Clerc that he could not remember, except that he usually woke up alive, head throbbing, body aching with a new crop of bruises and next to at least one woman.

Le Clerc’s crew was made up of various scoundrels, hard and ruthless men who, upon sighting a merchant ship, set to focused and harmonized work in merciless pursuit. They viewed their newest conscript with amusement, never before having a senior clerk from the harbormaster’s office among their ranks.

Grimaud stood on the quarter deck with le Clerc, watching their quarry getting closer with growing alarm. He did not relish the idea of throwing himself into a brawl on a ship with flying musket balls and men swinging swords and knives.

‘Calm down Grimaud,’ le Clerc told him firmly, ‘stop worrying about those bastards. Think of yourself as in the King’s navy.’

‘The King doesn’t have a navy,’ Grimaud corrected. At least their enemy was in fact an enemy. It was a Spanish ship.

‘He does now!’ laughed the Captain. ‘Behind me Grimaud!’ he shouted, a place Lucien was glad to occupy in these raids. 

With terrifying cries, brandishing swords and muskets, the crew followed their audacious and bellowing captain as he thundered first down the gangplank to board the enemy ship. Men were screaming from both sides – a melee of men rushing towards those who were hurling themselves over the sides of the ship or leaping from rigging, clashing swords and the smell of musket fire, ships heaving and grinding as they scrapped against each other - the chaos of attacking merchant ships was a dizzying experience alternately terrifying and thrilling.

Under blue skies, calm seas and stiff winds, the ship moved through the water gracefully. The mood would mellow, men sharing stories and song, making repairs and inveigling the captain for an extra ration of drink. Or, an ominous crack of thunder and darkening skies foreshadowing a storm – its winds blowing birds through the air, waves as grey green mountains, white caps blinking and disappearing into black troughs of water. The ship groaning as it heaves and lurches under the wind and waves, men like large wet dark beetles scurrying through rigging to adjust sails and haul rope. He had never worked so hard, or been as frightened, exhilarated and free as he was during this voyage. He briefly considered staying on.

Now this same formidable captain was back in port and bearing down on Grimaud. He was pleased to see the seaman.

‘You are alive!’ Grimaud laughed at the big man strode towards him, ‘all reports to the contrary.’ He managed to hang onto his case of papers while all the air in his lungs was squeezed out by the strength of the man’s embrace.

The man guffawed with laughter, clapping Grimaud again on the back, who braced for the impact and thereby did not go sprawling onto the wharf.

‘I want to talk with you Grimaud,’ his voice deep and gruff, hand still on Lucien’s shoulder, pointing a finger into his face and lowering his voice. ‘I have a proposition.’ Lucien looked at him with mock concern.

‘Not another card game, Jacques,’ he said warningly. ‘I know better than to drink and gamble with you.’ The captain grinned again and shook his head.

‘You are a good sailor Grimaud,’ the captain grinned at him, ‘you have a berth on my ships anytime you want. This is something else.’

Lucien raised his brows in interest and nodded. ‘Tonight? Dine with me.’

‘Devils Tavern,’ said the man. ‘We need some privacy. We’ll meet in Dolly’s room.’ Dolly was le Clerc’s mistress. She ran a whorehouse, but was faithful to le Clerc. He had been away for a long time and the reunion might take a while.

‘What time will she release you?’ he teased. ‘Think you will be able to walk?’

The fierce captain laughed heartily, but said, ‘9 o’clock.’

The two men walked down the wharf together and soon parted ways. Lucien was returning to the harbormaster office with his reports on the ships that had docked in the past week. Confirming the cargo had taken two days as he inspected barrels, roped bundles and crates. He had reviewed the muster-rolls, and taken reports on the six deaths during their voyages, checked the cargo holds and noted the remaining ship’s armaments. He had the captain’s logs. The stevedores were organizing their crews and preparing the rope gangs and horse teams that operated the cranes. Wagons were being brought into place to transport goods to warehouses.

Grimaud paused, hand to his forehead to block the sun, stared out into the harbor. He had reports from other captains to anticipate that a whaler would be dropping anchor. He would need to be ready for it. 

xxxx

 

Grimaud stood up and stretched. He had heard enough and had no further reason to stay. He was back in Paris to attend to the details of the enterprise he and le Clerc discussed that night. He had more important work to do. He stepped to the table and looked briefly at the ship schematic. Sarazin looked at him, waiting for his comment.

‘You have the port information you asked for,’ he said to Sarazin. LaBarge stared at him, mouth twisting in barely contained dislike and hostility.

‘Yes,’ said Sarazin, and pulled a heavy pouch from his pocket, handing it to Grimaud. He waited for Grimaud to comment on the ships they were planning to use. But Grimaud made no comment, only picked up the pouch and started for the door of the tavern. Sarazin narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

‘That’s it Grimaud?’ he called sarcastically.

Lucien didn’t turn or break his stride. He simply nodded and left the tavern. He didn’t like slave traders and did not do business with them. If the King of France wanted to trade in slaves, that was his business, not Grimaud’s. He didn’t want dealings of any kind with Sarazin, but he had to get closer to LaBarge. He had plans for the big man and for the master he served.

Later, he would attend the salon of Madame de Vivonne. Catherine had prevailed prettily upon him to be there. She enjoyed the brush with notoriety she received from her association with him - and she made it clear she wanted him back in her bed.

‘You need to come Lucien,’ she implored. ‘You’ve been away too long among illiterates. When did you last read a book?’

Her guest list was usually lively and entertaining, representing the flower of French literature, fashion and wit. Women, educated and cultured women, would be in abundance, the wine excellent, and Catherine had an exceptional cook. Besides, she had told him the King’s bastard brother needed to talk with him and he knew what the man wanted.


	6. All that glitters....

‘Grimaud,’ a voice growled at him, a hardened hand clapping down on his shoulder. Lucien tried not to wince under its grip. ‘What are you doing in Paris?’

He had arrived to find Mme de Vaillon’s salon noisy with overlapping and lively discussions on literary matters, more strident voices for politics and the chittering laughter that accompanies the abundance of gossip. Drifting throughout the rooms were the sounds of clinking glassware and tunes being played and sung to on the clavichord. No doubt, there was a crush in their hostess’ boudoir – a popular gathering place for this sparkling company.

The chandeliers glittered under the glow of many lit candles casting gentle lights and shadows on the perfumed and powdered crowd. Footmen moved through the rooms carrying silver trays with wine or champagne. Mingling together in Mme de Vaillon’s beautiful drawing rooms, were members of a glittering guest list of artists, writers, musicians, old noblesse, and only a few ministers, but there were no shortages of political opinions. Weaving between the groups in animated conversation was a languid drift of women - refined, witty, graceful and sophisticated, like a circling bouquet of brightly colored birds in rich satins, taffetas and lace.

But the first two people that Grimaud encountered, amongst this elegant company, was a pirate and a priest. It might have been two pirates. Father Lauren Blackburne - before he heard God calling, as he was scrambling up the gangplank in a raiding party, sword in one hand and musket in the other – had been a pirate. Later, the reformed pirate, turned Archbishop - claimed that he sailed with pirates as a chaplain to these lawless and soulless men. He had few believers of this tale.

The undisputed pirate was the Chevalier de Grammont, a nobleman disgraced for killing his sister’s suitor in a duel. An annoyed King banished him, dispatching him to the West Indies and giving him a ship and authority as a privateer. One of the Chevalier’s first successes was the capture of booty on a Dutch ship that had been worth a very large fortune. The nobleman-turned-pirate was optimistic that his triumph would earn him a King’s pardon. But, the King, realizing that his noble might be good for more than lolling about with other courtiers, decided against such leniency and sent the Chevalier back to work on the high seas.

‘I was about to ask you the same, Michel,’ said Grimaud, carefully extricating his shoulder from the man’s grasp. ‘Has the King relented?’

‘The little twit doesn’t know I’m here,’ the noble pirate said conspiratorially. ‘He’s too busy playing with his little red dolls,’ his lips twisting in contempt. It was a thinly veiled jab at the King’s dependent relationship with the Cardinal.

‘I’ve got Blackburne with me in case I need a last confession’ the Chevalier confided. ‘Although, collar or no, he may hang with me,’ the pirate roared at his own joke. The priest barely smiled. He raised his glass to Lucien and drifted off to a less risky group.

de Grammot was a celebrity in the salon world. He was an aristocrat with a daring profession and thereby an air of danger and romance. He wrote poetry, read books, and argued forcefully about world politics. He cut a dangerous and gallant figure - tall, well muscled, dressed in rich crimson waistcoat and matching breeches. He had a gleaming sword and two muskets slung over his shoulder. A large ruby and diamond cross hung from his neck and his broad brimmed hat carried a matching crimson feather. The diamond in this cross was one of the largest ever mined and was intended, before de Grammont snatched it, for the King of Portugal.

The Chevalier's menacing pirate eyes were roaming over the congregation of women distributed throughout the room and many of these aristocratic ladies were looking back at him, fearful and thrilled.

‘These women keep staring at me Grimaud,’ he remarked, his dark eyes hooded and twirling the ends of his moustache moodily.

‘You are a wonder tonight,’ said Lucien, marveling at his sparkling bejeweled crimson attire. 'I’m staring at you too.’ The pirate slanted his eyes towards him in amusement.

‘Don’t flirt with me young man,’ he warned mockingly. ‘You are too beautiful to resist.’ He laughed again heartily at his own joke, clapping Lucien on the back.

‘What are you two doing here together?’ their hostess was moving towards them, encased in a blue diaphanous dress trimmed in silver and lace. She was tightly corseted, her breasts threatening to burst from their confinement. She was fanning her flushed face.

‘You must mingle, – there are many people here to interest you,’ she gasped for air and fanned herself energetically, breathless from her traipse across the room.

‘Gaspar Stampe is about to read from his new collection of essays.’

She latched onto Lucien’s arm to pull him with her into the crowd and leaned closely to him. ‘Feron wants to see you,’ she whispered.

‘I’m off Grimaud,’ announced the Chevalier. The pirate had not taken his eyes from a beautiful dark-haired woman dressed in a flowing golden gown. She had turned repeatedly from her conversation to glance at him from lowered winking eyes over her gold and black fan held daintily to her mouth. He settled his hat firmly on his head preparing to sail towards his intended conquest for the evening, his rubies and diamonds glittering dangerously. She doesn’t stand a chance, thought Lucien.

‘Dine with me tomorrow. I have business to discuss with you,’ the pirate called over his shoulder as he moved off.

Philippe Achille, Marquis de Feron, bastard half-brother to the King, was holding his own illegitimate court while sitting in a large chair in front of the fire. Grimaud approached the group surrounding the Marquis’ chair. They were listening rapturously as Feron spun a tall tale of the King as a young boy learning to ride a horse. Laughter erupted at the end of the story, although some looked abashed, wondering if it was treasonous to laugh at a story of the King as a boy falling off a horse face planted in mud puddles.

Feron spied Grimaud and waved him forward, dismissing his audience with an additional wave of his hand. The Marquis grimaced as Lucien advanced towards him, his mouth held in a grim line. Feron’s twisted spine caused the man constant intolerable pain, relieved only by the strongest of known pain relievers – principally opium. This is what he wanted with Lucien.

Lucien sat in the chair opposite Feron and pulled a small packet from his pocket and put it in the Marquis’ hand.

‘You use too much of this,’ he told Feron. ‘It will become ineffective.’

Feron laughed grimly, pocketing the packet. ‘I hardly have a choice, Lucien.’ He looked at the tall dark-haired man sitting opposite him, taking in the substantial breath of shoulders and chest, muscles swelling against the sleeves of his doublet.

‘You look well, my friend. Life at sea seems to agree with you.’

‘Hardest work I’ve ever done,’ Lucien replied candidly. He was watching a woman across the room. She must have heard his voice, for she turned suddenly searching. He caught her eye and smiled at her. It was the Duchess of Rohan. He waited for her response.

Introduced to her by Catherine, he had encountered her again one early evening as she was leaving a settlement house. The hour was late, and he offered to walk her home and then, had impulsively invited her to dine with him. Unexpectedly she had accepted and what happened that night and after had surprised both of them.

She smiled back to him, inclining her head towards him.

‘Excuse me Phillippe,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the Duchess. Feron craned his head to see who he was looking at and smiled when he saw her.

‘Excellent taste, Grimaud,’ he remarked. ‘The lady is exquisite. You do know she is betrothed?’

‘It’s a requirement,’ replied Grimaud and started to thread his way to her.


	7. A Duchess can control a lot of things, but her heart is not one of them

She rolled over on her back and stared up at the canopy of the bed. She sat up and swung her legs over the side, shoving her feet into slippers and shrugging on her dressing gown. A candle burned next to the bed casting a small circle of light on the table. She dropped her head and rubbed her neck. She was tired, but too restless to fall asleep. She rose and walked to the window, drawing back the heavy drape and staring out into the night. She leaned her head against the window pane, welcoming the coldness of the glass against her skin.

She had seen him tonight. Where had he been? Business he always said, but he never told her where he was going or for how long. She would not ask either, trying to hold onto a shred of dignity or self-respect, although she was desperate to know. She thought if she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t know her need for him. But he did. He always knew what she needed.

She walked back to the fireplace, the fire banked and still warm. She wrapped a blanket around her and curled up on the chaise. She leaned her head against the back, closed her eyes and allowed herself to think about him.

How could she return to this madness? There had been times when she barely recognized herself. It felt like her life had narrowed to the hours she had spent with him. He had awakened something in her, opened a door into herself that she had not known existed. She had been a good daughter of the aristocracy. Obedient to the rules of decorum and expectations. She had not yet accepted a suitor, preferring to live a life that she owned, not by the leave of a husband. Her titles and wealth permitted these choices. She had been carefully raised in a loving family. Her father, a diplomat in the King’s service, had traveled widely and taken his wife and daughter with him. But despite this cosmopolitan upbringing, she was still innocent of men. What experience she wondered, would have prepared her for him?

She had met him at one of Catherine’s salons. She had noticed him as soon as he walked through the door. Tall, dark hair, a handsome man moving with confidence and grace, recognizing many people who turned to greet him as he walked through the crowded room. A beautiful woman approached him, taking his arm possessively and whispering something in his ear. He gave a shout of laughter throwing his head back and then leaned down kissing her cheek, gently releasing her hand and moving on. The woman watched him as he walked away.

‘I see Liana, that you have found the most handsome man in Paris,’ teased Catherine. She turned, startled and embarrassed to have been caught staring at a man. It was completely inappropriate, and she fanned her face energetically to hide the flush in her cheeks.

‘I’ll introduce you,’ Catherine gripped her arm, and started practically dragging her toward the dark and mysterious man. She balked, suddenly petrified of meeting him. 

‘No,’ she gasped, trying to pull her arm away. But Catherine was in full stride and calling to the man through the crowd, ‘Lucien!’ He turned and smiled at his hostess. He started to walk towards them.

‘Catherine,’ he leaned forward, taking her hand and kissing it. Strong brows framed deep set dark eyes, laced with green and glinting with golden highlights. His face was lean, a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His mouth was generous, and his voice was deep, soft and melodious. Of course, she thought – it would be beautiful too. She coughed, attempting to suppress a sudden nervous giggle. He looked at her curiously.

‘May I present my dear friend, the Duchess of Rohan,’ said Catherine, ‘M. Grimaud.’

He bowed to her and took her offered hand but did not kiss it and then stood up and looked directly into her eyes. She mind was blank, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. She cleared her throat again. He frowned.

‘Are you all right my lady?’ he asked with concern. ‘May I get you something to drink?’ He looked around for a footman. She started to open her mouth to speak, but he had already spied a tray with filled glasses and stepped to retrieve one for her. He pressed the wine glass into her hand, keeping his over hers, lest she drop it.

‘This may help,’ he advised and waited for her to take a drink. She didn’t see Catherine discreetly withdraw. She didn’t know anything except his dark eyes filled with concern for her and the feel of his hand covering hers.

She had not seen him for several weeks following the first introduction at Catherine’s salon. Then, one day she was exiting the settlement house for the evening, and he was there, lounging against the doorway of the tavern across the way. As she stepped into the street, he pushed himself off the wall and crossed to her. He wore a long dark riding coat. He was removing his hat as he crossed towards her, leading his horse.

She drew in her breath sharply and pressed her lips together, trying to gather herself. He was smiling at her and there was something else in those dark eyes.

‘My lady,’ his deep voice soft and melodic. ‘You are perhaps in need of an escort. It’s getting late to be walking unaccompanied through the streets.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she answered him. ‘I had forgotten the time.’ She was suddenly uncertain of what to say. How had he known her whereabouts? ‘How is it you are here so convenient to my escort needs? What brings you to this neighborhood?’

‘Business,’ he smiled at her.

‘What is your business?’ she asked boldly. Catherine had whispered excitedly to her that some, including the Musketeers, considered this man to be a criminal. She had never known a criminal and was confused as to exactly what it meant. Was it stealing bread and pick-pockets?

‘I’ll tell you,’ he answered directly. ‘Although, I’d rather talk about you.’

He might have been flirtatious, except there wasn’t a hint of teasing or coyness in his tone or manner. She was confused and felt the heat in her face. She looked up at him. He was studying her with an amused gleam in his dark eyes.

‘Dine with me tonight,’ It was a bold request although it didn’t seem like a request. More like a statement of what she had already agreed to do.

‘Yes,’ she answered suddenly, surprising herself.

‘I didn’t know you lived in Paris,’ she stammered, trying to collect herself. This is unacceptable she thought. What was she doing?

They had arrived at her front door. ‘I will send a coach for you,’ he said, not answering her question, raising her hand and brushing his lips against it. She sucked in her breath. I should tell him I cannot dine with him she thought to herself. Ridiculous that she would go to his house alone. Where was his house? But he was already gone, walking down the stairs, mounting his horse and riding away, tipping his hat to her.

She had her maid prepare a bath, and soaked the tiredness from her shoulders. She sank under the water and soaped her hair and body. She thought about the walk home with him, and the conversation. Why was she so unsettled? She was only going to dinner. She went out to dinner many evenings. Although, she dined mostly with friends known to her. She should not go to the home of a man she barely knew. Well that’s silly, she thought. I am perfectly able to manage my own life and see whomever I please. But she knew, she should not be going to dinner with him. 

xxx

The maid appeared at the door. ‘The carriage my lady, it is here.’

‘Thank you.’ She studied herself in the mirror. Her manner of dress was a good deal more simple than current trends for the nobility. The gown she had chosen was cut deeply in the back, exposing her shoulders and flaring over her hips. It was a rich silk in a deep hunter green, bringing out the green highlights in her hazel eyes. She wore diamonds earrings and matching choker. Her maid had dressed her hair with small diamond pins. She stared in the mirror and thought she barely recognized herself. She should not be going to dinner with him. She studied her hand, the one that his lips had touched. She could still feel his lips.

He was waiting in the driveway for the carriage and opened the carriage door, holding her hand as she stepped down. He smiled down at her, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes, and led her into the house. He stopped in the entryway and helped her remove her cloak, handing it to the butler. He eyes took her in, traveling over her face and down her body.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said softly. He stepped toward her, lifting her hand to his sensuous mouth and brushing his lips against her hand. She felt her face burning. She should pull her hand back, firmly so he would stop. She wanted him to do it again.

She pulled her hand back, saying, ‘I know this house. Is it not the home for Comte Raymond Armuier?’ She was turning to look around the large foyer. ‘I thought he was abroad.’ She was sure she had been here previously.

‘It is,’ he replied readily. ‘And yes, he is abroad. In Italy, studying art I believe.’

‘Art!’ she exclaimed. ‘I had no idea he was interested in art. I thought he only loved horses and his falcons.’ She laughed, ‘Is he learning to draw too?’

Lucien smiled at her, leading her into the drawing room. ‘His last letter was not detailed on that point.’

‘You stay here while he is away?’ she decided to be persistent and learn more about him.

‘He and I have done business together. He is gracious enough to let me live here while he is abroad. I travel a good deal, and it suits me to not be concerned with managing a house right now.’ He was ambiguous, but the answer was plausible.

The room was large and beautiful with tapestries, large portraits of long dead ancestors, finely carved sofas and chairs placed in front of the fireplace, covered in elegant fabrics. Highly polished tables, two with marble tops, were placed strategically for serving tea, or wine. The floor to ceiling windows were framed by heavy curtains. The room was aromatic with the scent of fresh flowers and the glow of candles gave a soft light. In a small alcove, in front of three of the tall windows was a small round table, covered in a heavy white tablecloth and set for two. There were candles lighting it and the setting was small and intimate. She was startled and drew in her breath. She turned to look at him questioning.

He smiled at her, ‘I thought the dining room rather large for just the two of us. Will this do, or shall I have it moved?’ He was allowing her to dictate the terms of their evening. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and thought he must hear it as well. She smiled, and said ‘Its lovely.’

He led her to one of the two sofas in front of the fireplace and poured wine into two glasses. He handed her one and raised his glass to her. ‘To new friends,’ he said. He was smiling, but his dark eyes were serious and looking into hers. She drank her wine quickly, looking away from his handsome face and intrusive eyes. She looked up when she felt him taking her glass from her hand to refill it, his eyes now amused.

‘If I recall correctly, Raymond has an extensive library,’ she said to him, looking around the room. ‘This room is beautiful.’

He was pouring wine again, ‘Yes, it is beautiful. Raymond’s father had a very good eye for beautiful furniture and ceramics. Raymond has made many improvements and has spent a great deal of money on this house. And your memory is correct, there is an excellent library.’ He looked at her over the rim of his glass. ‘Would you like to see it?’

Why did that sound like an invitation to something other than looking at a room full of books she wondered. Before she could answer, there was a discreet knock and the butler entered.

The butler stood at the door and Grimaud turned and nodded to him. He held his hand out to her to help her from the sofa. ‘Perhaps later. Shall we dine, my lady?’

‘You were going to tell me about your business,’ she reminded him as he held her chair for her. He waved the footman away and poured her wine himself.

‘What did you want to know?’ he asked her. Now she felt a flash of pique. He was expert at this sidestep with her. She would not make it so easy for him.

‘What is your business, exactly? You told me, when we met previously, of your circumstances. You have obviously risen high and I would like to know how.’ There she thought. Now he will know I cannot be totally distracted by wine, dark seductive eyes, and a deep melodic voice.

He was surprised. Or, he seemed surprised. He looked at her, all amusement gone from his eyes and face, uncertain, as though her words had been hurtful to him. She was suddenly unsure. Had she offended him?

‘I apologize,’ she found herself saying. ‘I did not mean to be so….emphatic.’ She placed her hand on the table and leaned towards him, asking him to understand her.

‘I do not know you.’ She stammered, ‘I mean, I do not know you well.’

She looked away, her thoughts tangled, ‘I do not even know how to address you,’ her voice was plaintive. The barest and most fundamental courtesies were escaping her.

‘Do you want to know me?’ he asked her softly, looking at her hand that she had laid on the table. She raised her eyes to him, her lips parting, but making no sound. He covered her hand with his. Her hand felt small and vulnerable under his.

He smiled at her and said softly, ‘Please, call me Lucien.’

She swallowed, but didn’t trust her voice, so she simply nodded. But she didn’t withdraw her hand.

The butler appeared again, carrying a large tray to the buffet to serve them.

‘I hope you are hungry,’ he said to her. ‘I gave some general instructions, but left it to the cook to plan the menu. I believe it to be rather expansive,’ he laughed removing his hand from hers and she drew it back to her lap.

‘It smells wonderful.’ She replied. He was smiling again at her, his handsome face softened, and she was greatly relieved to have the pleasant mood restored.

The food was delicious, and she found that she was hungry. He asked her many questions about her family, her father’s work and their travels. He was curious about where she had lived, the people there and what she loved the most. He listened without interruption, watching her as she talked about growing up in foreign places, the love her father and mother had for each other and her, her education, and expectations of her position in society.

It had been a long time since anyone had asked her questions about herself and he was a good listener. She felt an informality and privacy with him as they sat together at a small table, drinking wine and eating dinner. As she was talking, he got up to refill their plates from the buffet, not waiting for the butler. She protested that she couldn’t eat so much. ‘I will bet that you ate little today,’ he said to her. ‘You devoured the first helping.’ She looked horrified at his description of her table manners. He laughed at her expression and set the plate down, saying firmly, ‘Eat.'

At last, she sat back in her chair, dabbing the napkin to her mouth. She looked up at him, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. He was sitting with his elbow on the table, balancing his chin against the knuckles of one hand, watching her with a pleased smile. ‘More?’ he inquired politely.

She rolled her eyes at him, ‘I have embarrassed myself enough this evening with my appetite. Your cook is excellent, and I may steal her away from you. Or Raymond.’ She lifted her wine glass to drain it. She felt relaxed, happy, and at ease with him.

‘A healthy appetite is nothing to be embarrassed about,’ he told her emphatically. He threw his napkin to the table, stood up, and offered his hand to her, pulling her up. ‘Port in the library?’

He opened the door into the gallery and tucked her arm through his as they walked toward the library. A few candles lined the gallery and the light was dim. The bushes lining the front of the house together with the rippled glass of the windows provided a filtered watery view of the boulevard beyond, the passing carriages, and slow-moving pedestrians. Sounds were muted, and she felt disconnected from the world she knew. She slowed her step to look through the window and he turned to her with a questioning look. He followed her gaze out the window at the world beyond and then back to her. His handsome face was mostly in shadow and she couldn’t read his expression, but she found herself stepping towards him, and then his hands were cupping her face, and he was bending to her, his mouth covering hers.

It was a gentle kiss. He held her to him and she leaned against him, breathing in his scent, her heart pounding and heat beginning to spread throughout her body. He pulled back slowly, kissed her on the forehead, holding her head against his chest. She closed her eyes.

‘I guess this means you liked dinner,’ he chuckled softly in her ear, his mouth against her neck.

She pulled away and clicked her tongue in mock rebuke to him. ‘Sir - you will not tell anyone about my table manners!’ she scolded him. He grinned, and they continued down the gallery.

They came to the library doors and he drew them open. She passed in front of him into the room. It was large, darkly paneled in the places where there was no floor to ceiling shelves of books. Sofas, comfortable chairs, small tables were scattered around the room, inviting visitors to sit and peruse a book taken from a shelf.

‘It is an extensive collection,’ he said as he began to walk around the room pointing to sections. ‘Raymond’s grandfather was interested in philosophy, mathematics and religion, and his father in poetry, history and politics.’ He was drawing books from the shelves and handing them to her. 

‘Books continue to arrive as Raymond has standing orders with many book dealers in Paris.’ She walked to the shelves, looking up to read some of the titles. She was disoriented from what she had done in the hallway and needed a distance from him to gain her composure.

‘You have read many of these,’ she said wonderingly to him. She had assumed, from what he had told her of his early life, that he had little formal education. But he had the language, bearing and conversation of an educated man, which had puzzled her. With a start she realized that he was self-taught.

‘Yes,’ he said. He folded his arms across his broad chest, leaning against the bookshelves watching her.

‘The sisters had a tutor for me, Latin, history and mathematics, religious philosophy. I think they hoped I would go into the priesthood. A good profession for a poor boy.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘I’m afraid that idea did not take root.’

She laughed also and turned back to the shelves, walking slowly and looking at the titles. She felt him come up behind her, reach over her to tug a book from the shelf to hand to her. She glanced at the title and set the book down, leaning back against him. She was scarcely breathing.

He turned her slowly in his arms and pulled her to him, his mouth against hers, tongue teasing her lips until she parted them, and he was sliding his tongue over her lips, exploring her mouth. This was no gentle kiss. It was hot and insistent. She had never been kissed like this. It, literally, took her breath away and she clung to him as his hands moved around to her back and down along her hips. He was kissing her neck, her shoulders, down to the top of her breast. She gasped at the feel of his mouth on her skin and the heat uncoiling deep within her.

He straightened up slowly, kissing her again, gently. He was breathing hard and he leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed. ‘Liana,’ he whispered. ‘Please forgive me.’

He tilted her head back looking into her flushed and confused face, and murmured, ‘I think I should send you home now, or else I will not be able to send you home.’

She nodded, trying desperately to collect herself, smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress. He kissed her forehead and turned them both toward the door. Again, he tucked her arm through his and walked them slowly down the gallery, his head bent to hers.

He collected her cloak and placed it around her shoulders, closing the clasp at her neck. He held his hands there for a moment, seemingly indecisive about letting go.  
And then he was handing her into the carriage, wrapping the blanket around her, kissing her hand.

He closed the carriage door, thumping his hand on the roof and the carriage moved away. She leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She could hardly believe what had just happened. Her skin was burning from his touch. She traced her mouth with her fingers where his had been and she drew in a sharp breath. It occurred to her that she could order the driver to turn around. She should be ashamed of how much she wanted him leaning against her, his strong hands on her body.

Her maid helped her from her dress and brought warm water for her to wash. She held her arms up as the night dress was slipped over her head. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and curled up on the chaise in front of the fire, staring into the flames.

She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. She was having an association with a man whose status was clearly inappropriate, had met with him alone in a private home and had kissed him in an intimate encounter. He hadn’t asked to see her again. Her conduct was deplorable. He had stopped her and sent her home! He must be disgusted with her behavior. She was sure she would never see him again. But she was wrong.


	8. Summer's lease hath all too short a date

To cut his beard a nymph could him inspire;  
And, in the water, he'd his face admire.  
His club the other to a spindle changed,  
To please the belle with whom he often ranged……’

‘You are asleep,’ she gently tugged at his ear. ‘M. de la Fontaine amorous courtesan is not to your liking my lord?’ she inquired teasingly, running her fingers through his silky hair.

‘uh-uh,’ he grunted sleepily, not opening his eyes.

They were on a blanket, Liana leaning against a large tree shading their picnic. Muted sounds of buzzing insects and singing birds drifted along the gentle breeze. A small lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, its still surface broken intermittently by a fish rising from deeper waters. He was lying on his back, head in her lap, his long legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles. His eyes were closed and the steady rise and fall of his chest belied his denial of sleeping.

‘Are you awake?’ she inquired, her fingers stroking his hair back from his forehead and then tracing the line of his cheek. She loved touching him and marveled at the perfect conformation of his features. He reached up his hand to capture hers and brought it to his lips.

‘Do you need me to be?’ he asked, still not opening his eyes.

‘I thought you liked me to read poetry to you,’ she chastised gently.

‘You could read the tide tables to me and I would like it,’ he said lazily. She laughed and leaned down to kiss him. He held her there for a long moment.

‘I’m awake now,’ he said and put his arms around her, pulling her across him and onto her back, rolling to his side to kiss her again, running his hands down her side, over her hip and leg. She murmured softly as his lips moved to her neck.

‘We shouldn’t do this here,’ she said, laughing and pushing his hands away from untying the laces of her bodice.

‘Mmmm… we’ve already done this here’ he purred and stilled his hand, leaning up on his elbow to look down at her.

‘So why am I awake?’ he asked, frowning in mock annoyance at her.

‘I need to talk with you,’ she said, a slight frown between her beautiful brows. He smoothed the frown with his fingers.

‘All right, I’ll listen if you agree to let me make love to you,’ he nuzzled her neck, hands returning to the task of the laces.

She laughed again and pushed against him, sitting up, ’you already made love to me.’

‘You woke me up,’ he pointed out. ‘Seems fair.’

She smiled at him, her eyes roaming over his face as though she needed to memorize its conformation – the planes of his shadowed cheeks, a firm jaw and high cheekbones, a generous, tender, demanding, insistent mouth, deep set hazel eyes with golden glinting highlights, sometimes amused, often dark with desire and uncontrolled passion.

‘Summer is almost over,’ she said softly. He looked away from her, out over the lake. He dropped his eyes to his fingers, tracing the edge of her bodice. Her skin was wonderfully soft. When she lay naked under him, his mouth would trace a line from her neck down the length of her, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, it’s translucent quality. She had a tiny mole under her left earlobe and another on her collarbone. She would try to suppress giggling if his tongue tickled her stomach and stroking her backside and thighs made her gasp and moan with anticipation. He pulled his hand away and cupped her face, his eyes intense.

‘When do you leave?’ he asked quietly, stroking her cheek.

‘A few days,’ she said. ‘The dressmaker is waiting for me. I need to finalize arrangements for the breakfast…’

‘All right,’ he interrupted her and abruptly sat up. He didn’t want to know more.

‘Lucien…’ she tried to turn his face to hers, imploring him to look at her. He turned to her, sighing deeply and smiled at her.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We have a few days.’

xxx

He was dressed, leaning over the fireplace adding more wood. The fire flared into life. When she woke, the room would be warm. He straightened and looked toward the bed and the sleeping figure. He walked to the bed, looking down at her. She was sleeping on her back, her silky hair streaming across the pillows, her bare arms cold to his touch. He pulled the covers up and tucked the blanket around her. He bent to kiss her forehead. She did not stir.

He walked quietly from the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The maid was waiting for him in the hallway. She handed him his cloak and gloves, ‘the carriage will be available when she is ready.’ He nodded and walked down the stairs quickly and turned back to exit the house through the kitchen. The cook looked towards him as he entered the kitchen, silently waiting to see if he required food or drink. He smiled at her, shook his head and walked to the rear door.

He came to a small tavern attached to an inn and circled around to the alley way in the rear of the building. Lights flickered through the window. He gave a soft knock at the door and pushed it open. There were two women at the table. One was rolling out dough on a large square table set in the center of the room. Flour covered her hands and forearms, puffing up little white clouds as she kneaded the dough hard against the flour sprinkled table.

The second woman was sitting on a tall stool in front of bowls of jam, honey, sugar, almond paste, and nuts. She was preparing to add a spoonful of confection before sealing the pastry and placing it on the tray for baking. She was using one arm and hand for this maneuver. The other was resting in a sling.

‘Good morning,’ said the seated woman, looking in the general direction of the door.

‘Good morning,’ he replied. He smiled at the woman kneading dough at the table, pressing her shoulder as he passed her. He took Juliette’s arm, helping her off the stool and led her to a chair by the fire, turning back to the brazier to pour tea into two cups. She accepted the cup of hot tea he pressed into her hands. They sat in companionable silence while he ate and they both drank tea.

Finally, he finished and said, ‘I left a few.’ She grinned at him, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t think you left any,’ she scolded, but smiled.

He studied her for a moment. She held her injured arm and shoulder gingerly, and her face still pale. But she looked happy to be back in her kitchen.

‘You look better every day,’ he remarked. She had been wounded during the melee at the market square. The surgeon had gotten to her in time to remove the bolt from her shoulder and apply the medicines he had ordered. There had been a brief time during which fever had threatened, but she had come through that as well.

‘I’m happy you are here,’ she said simply. ‘Gerard had to go to the warehouse. It was something to do with our delivery.’ He frowned, ‘you are here alone?’

Lucille turned to him, ‘my brother is in the tavern. He came to help for a while.’ She was lifting a tray of pastries to take into the inn for customers. Lucien nodded, satisfied that the women had protection.

‘You seem distracted this morning,’ she noted to him, after Lucille had left. ‘You have not quarreled with your lady?’

‘I may be so,’ he said truthfully. ‘But no, not an argument.’ He had told her of the lady who was occupying his bed most nights. She had occupied most of his days as well. She had laughed and told him he sounded like a besotted schoolboy. He did not deny this characterization.

‘She is to be married soon,’ he said, his voice not as nonchalant as he intended. He took a swallow of hot tea, burning his tongue.

The blind woman sitting opposite him was quiet, her face stilled by the emotion she heard in his voice. She leaned forward, searching for his hand. He let her take it without comment, only looking down at their entwined fingers.

‘I will be away for a few days,’ he stood up. It was almost dawn and time for him to go.

‘Lucien…,’ she started to say. He leaned over her and kissed her cheek.

‘I’ll see you in a few days,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Xxx

le Clerc sat on a bench outside the tavern rolling a pinch of tobacco in a paper. He struck a flint and lit the end, drawing deeply and blowing out a lazy drift of smoke. The fog was thick, and he could see the muted glow of lighted fires in the distance warning ships of the approaching shoreline and harbor.

From the end of the walkway, a tall hatted figure emerged from the fog, slowly taking shape of a man. Boots thudded against the boards, long coat swinging below the knees. The figure was carrying a large bundle over one shoulder, balancing it with one hand and striding along easily, the glow of a cigarette flaring briefly as the man smoked. He was singing.

‘Grammont,’ called le Clerc, ‘what have you got there?’ A deep chuckle drifted to him from the walking man.

‘A drunken besotted brokenhearted man,’ he boomed. ‘Two days drunk in Paris, two days drunk on the Seine to Rouen and now two days drunk in Le Havre.’

‘He might be dead by now,’ observed le Clerc, not moving from his perch.

‘Not yet,’ said the pirate, ‘but he’s working on it.’ He stopped in front of le Clerc and in one smooth motion, dumped the unconscious man at his feet.

The door to the tavern opened and a blond woman emerged. Tall, raw boned, masses of blond hair in various stages of confinement, billowing about her open ruddy face and falling in tangles beyond her shoulders. Her blue eyes took in the two men and the man on the ground, her eyes widening in shock and concern.

‘Lucien,’ she cried, bending down to him. ‘What’s happened to you man?’ She lifted one sore eyelid and he groaned, weakly and ineffectually swatting at her hand. His face was scratched and bruised, considerable discoloration around one eye. He hadn’t ducked soon enough.

‘A woman,’ proclaimed Grammont. As far as he was concerned, that was sufficient explanation for all the worst a man could suffer.

‘He’s alive after all,’ said le Clerc, sounding surprised. The blond woman stood up, hands to her hips and glared at the two pirate captains.

‘What have you done?’ she accused them. The two men hesitated before answering. It was best not to be hasty with attempting witty retorts to an angry brothel madame. They were known to have short tempers with insolent men.

‘I saved him,’ declared Grammont. ‘Found him in a tavern in Paris, very drunk and fighting with anyone who came close enough to hit. Also surrounded by too many women - even for Grimaud. He was about to be arrested –– I thought it best to find a friendlier establishment.’

‘How did you get here?’ asked le Clerc curiously. Drunken pirates were known to have difficulty navigating on land. How had they not ended up in Spain?

‘I think du Sable was there. I seem to remember a boat,’ the pirate said narrowing his eyes and stroking his beard trying to concentrate, ‘then we were in Rouen and now we are here,’ he finished with a dramatic flourish of his arm.

‘He’s been terrible company for the last day or so,’ he said, frowning at his insensible companion lying at their feet and swaying.

‘So are you when you are drunk and unconscious,’ snapped Dolly. ‘Or even when you are not! Now get him inside. Upstairs.’

The two men stooped to take the feet and shoulders and carry him into the house. Dolly went ahead of them. When they finally got to the top of the stairs, managing to bump the unconscious man’s head only once, she was waiting in an open doorway. They dropped the man unceremoniously on the bed and left his care to the women. They went to tavern to comfort each other over Grimaud’s broken heart. The remedy for his ailment was obvious to the pirate captains.

‘Take him with you,’ advised Grammont, lifting his tankard to le Clerc. ‘A raiding party will do him good. He’ll feel better after he kills a Spaniard or two.’

Upstairs, Dolly removed Lucien’s boots. A woman poked her head in the doorway.

‘Need help Doll?’ she asked. The blond woman nodded. ‘He needs a shirt.’ The dark-haired girl disappeared from the doorway, returning a few minutes later holding a clean shirt.

‘He’s in a bad way,’ the dark-haired girl remarked. She was removing his doublet. A third woman appeared in the doorway carrying a large bowl, pitcher of warm water and a cloth. She set to work washing him gently.

Dolly and the dark-haired girl pulled the shirt carefully over his head. They removed his trousers and tucked the blankets around him. Dolly leaned over him and kissed his cheek.

‘Sleep luv,’ she said, shaking her head at him. ‘You’re not going to feel much better in the morning.’

Xxx

She tucked her feet under her, pulled the blanket around her shoulders, and leaned her cheek against the cool glass. She glanced toward the bed. Her husband was asleep, his back to her.

He never rolled away from her. He drew her back to him, arms wrapped around her and fell asleep, his cheek resting against her silky hair. She tried to stay awake, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back, his breath tickling her cheek, strong arms cocooning her. She wanted to savor these moments. There would never be enough of them.

She had gotten through the day with a cool demeanor, belying the emotional disorder of longing and sadness that enveloped her. Her wedding dress was beautiful, she was smiling and greeting guests, accepting congratulations with poise, her husband beside her, she had seemed the embodiment of noble grace and elegance. On their wedding night, her husband had been considerate and tender, and she knew this would be the manner of their love for their life together. 

It was different than her nights with him. Returning from a trip, he would stride into the room, his eyes burning into hers, clasping her to him, opening her mouth with his, feeling his desire hard and insistent against her. Catching her up into his arms, he kicked open the door to the bedroom. He would wake her in the night, soft kisses to her neck, fingers stroking her again to insensibility.

‘Touch me,’ he whispered to her. Hesitant, shy, her hands slid over his muscled shoulders, her mouth gently pressed to his chest, her tongue flicking his nipples. His muscles jumped reflexively under her touch, he held her against him and she loved the power she had to make him moan with pleasure. He tangled his fingers in her hair as she moved in rhythm beneath him. There was freedom in his arms, no modesty, or rules of propriety. She loved to stretch herself out the length of him, the feel of his hard body against her, sleepy and sated, his fingers stroking her back lazily.

Her husband would be a good father and she would never have cause to fear him. Her children would inherit her titles and estates and understand their responsibilities to their lands and the tenants who made their homes there. Her marriage vows were sacred and there would be no betrayal of her husband with infidelities. She would be a good wife.

She returned to the bed and lay down carefully so not to wake her husband. She stared out the window at the stars and the sliver of moon. She knew that every night she lay in this bed, she would look out this window at the stars and ask the same question - where was he?


	9. The Return

The wind whipped his hair as he jumped from the rigging onto the deck. The sun was hot and high overhead, the ship moving easily in the wind that filled the sails. He could see the harbor approaching and he moved to the bow in anticipation of preparations to moor the ship. Other men were already there, checking the cables, anchor buoys, and the ropes than attached the anchors to the ship. The ship was slowing - Captain le Clerc was considerate when it came to his ship – no hard jerks at the end of a cable line to discomfit his lady.

Lucien Grimaud had been at sea for the past six months. He had regained consciousness in a bed in Dolly’s bordello, weak and fog-brained. Every inch of his body hurt. He had scrapes and bruises from fights he did not remember and he had no idea how he got to Le Havre. Captain le Clerc watched him as he forced himself to incline his body upward, his head pounding and stomach nauseous with the effort and the sudden change from completely horizontal to slightly vertical. He moved his stiff and aching legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, swaying dangerously close to collapsing back onto the bed.

‘Better come with me Grimaud,’ the captain offered his own remedy to cure drunken hangovers and broken hearts. Lucien tried to speak, his voice raspy, but could only nod his head – very slowly. He accepted without hesitation.

He needed to work – to be worked hard enough to not care about anything except surviving the seas and the fight. Sailing vessels are demanding mistresses and crewing a ship, pirate or not, requires a lot of muscle and is the hardest work a man can do - hoisting and maintaining masts, raising anchors, manning the winches for cargo, repairing rigging and sail, and the best caulked ship leaked, needing daily pumping of water. Success in stalking and seizing merchant vessels required harmonization of labor. Training for speed and synchronization of the crew was constant and gun crews often spent the night sleeping beside their guns.

In steady and calm seas, he started to work before sunrise and did not stop until long after the sun was down. In gale-force winds, he struggled against wind and rushing water, three feet deep or more surging across the open deck, and crashing through passageways below deck, sending men tumbling down ladders awash in frigid sea water. While the ship is tossed about like a toy, riding the waves and the wind like a bucking horse, he climbed 80 feet above the deck, knife between clenched teeth, balancing on thin wire in high winds and roiling seas, one arm clinging to the rigging, while furling sails or cutting lines. He tempered his drinking and when a prize merchant ship was spotted, he no longer was behind his captain as they rushed the gangplank to capture their trophy. He was among the first to go, sword in one hand, musket in the other.

Now, he stood, with easy strength and adaptation to the roll and pitch of the ship under him, watching as the port grew closer. He narrowed his dark gold-flecked eyes against the bright sunlight and rubbed his stubbled cheek with a calloused hand. He was battle hard, bronzed from the sun, dark hair sun kissed with red and gold highlights swinging below his shoulders. He was back in port with a clear mind and purpose.

Le Clerc had sailed into the Mediterranean seas, where under clear skies and with the blue of the ocean breaking before them under stiff winds, they relieved several Turkish merchant vessels of their cargo of Ottoman guns. Slipping away from pursuing Corsairs, they off-loaded their cargo in Marseille. Forty members of Guilleri’s rat-band of highwaymen escorted the wagons carrying the weapons to the Paris warehouses. The buyers were already in route to meet Grimaud in Paris.

The ship was approaching the port in Le Havre, preparing to unload the rest of their ill-gotten cargo and ship it to the warehouses in Paris. The riverboat fleet were waiting in Rouen for him and the cargo.

‘Grimaud,’ call the du Sable. The riverboat captain was sitting on an upended barrel on the wharf, puffing on his cigar. He stood up and watched as Lucien strode toward him, one duffle balancing on his shoulder and carrying another with his hand.

‘You look a damn site better than you did the last time I saw you,’ remarked du Sable, pulling on his pipe.

Grimaud grinned at him, ‘Good to see you Pierre. I don’t think I actually saw you the last time. I owe you for a fast exit from Paris a few months ago.’

‘You and Grammont,’ du Sable gave a shout of laughter. ‘Good thing I was there. Grammont was trying to toss you from the dock to the boat. My men were running all over the deck trying to catch you. Man was upright, but drunker than you – didn’t have the sense to fall over.’

Grimaud shook his head laughing, ‘I think I’m glad I remember none of it.’

‘Dolly and the girls took good care of you,’ the riverman said. He pointed to the bags Lucien was holding.

‘Pick up a few souvenirs somewhere?’ he grinned at the tall, dark-haired man.

‘I did bring you a few presents.’

‘Something shiny I hope,’ said du Sable hopefully. He pointed to the two bags, ‘is that all? I’ve got three boats waiting for you.’

‘We are going to need them all,’ Lucien told him, turning and lifting his chin toward the longboats rowing to the docks. du Sable raised his brows in approval.

The riverboat captain liked doing business with Grimaud. He had made the riverman rich. Few men in this occupation made a lot of money, avoided unnecessary violence, drew little attention and survived. The life of a privateer could be extremely short. Making one’s fortune fast and getting out of the business was the surest way to living to an old age. That, and picking the right captain and partners.

The trip from Rouen to Paris was uneventful. They floated silently along the river marred by the gentle plop of the water broken by the oars. Insects buzzed and occasionally a fish broke the surface of the water. Lights appeared at intervals as they flowed past small villages set back from the banks. The men watched the shoreline vigilantly, alert to boats to threaten their cargo.

It was late when they approached Grimaud’s wharfs in Paris. Muted golden lights glowed through the fog marking the dock on the shore. The fog was thick and obscured the actual structures until they loomed, suddenly close and large. People were walking on paths along the river and he could hear sounds of a city behind the dock activity.

A solitary man, wearing a long riding coat and broad-brimmed hat, stood on a dock holding a lighted lantern and another one was at his feet. The boat changed course toward his direction and in a few minutes, it was moving parallel to the wharf jutting out into the river. Suddenly, there was a great deal of activity as men emerged from the shadows to grab lines thrown by the crew to the wharf, hauling back on these ropes to slow and stop the boat’s movements.

‘Paul,’ Lucien jumped to the wharf, and embraced the man. The man looked at his master’s face, noting the clear eyes and hard grip of the man’s hand and nodded, smiling his pleasure at the site of his employer and friend.

‘Lucien,’ he replied simply. He turned to watch the men fixing the lines and jumping into the boat to begin removing the cargo. ‘All is as you instructed.’

‘Good,’ said Lucien, also watching the men beginning to move quickly to unload cargo and transfer it to the wagons. Others stood guard with muskets drawn. du Sable jumped from the low river boat onto the wharf.

‘Almost didn’t see you Paul,’ du Sable was referring to the thick fog. ‘Might have given all this to the wrong man!’ he laughed and lit his pipe. A little circle of tobacco glowed red and yellow in the dark night.

‘Drink?’ he asked Lucien, who nodded at him. The two men turned to walk up the path leading from the wharf toward a group of buildings lining the road that led into the city.

‘I’ll see you when this is done,’ Lucien said to his man, who nodded at him, continuing to watch the men and the cargo. They were seasoned dockworkers and moved silently and efficiently. They knew their job, and the man for whom they worked. No errors would be made tonight.

He entered first into the tavern. Men turned from their conversations, arguments, card games, and groping women on their laps to look at the tall, dark haired man who had entered the tavern. For a moment there was silence. The atmosphere became animated as the sounds of curiosity and excitement rippled through the room. As he passed by the tables, men reached out to shake his hand, or thump his arm or shoulder, or to say a word or two. As he reached a table in the back, a man raised his tankard of ale and to a man the rest of the assemblage raised their tankards in salutation. Grimaud was back.

Paul entered the tavern and walked to where Grimaud and du Sable were sitting. ‘It’s done,’ he told Grimaud. ‘The men are paid. How much time do we have?’

‘Ten days I expect,’ said Lucien. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning and will be back before the buyers get here.’

xxx 

The village was deserted. The unkempt weeds and grasses patchily covered the ground between the silent buildings. The door to the tavern hung precariously from one hinge, rocking gently in the breeze. He walked through the empty rooms, his boots thudding on the wooden floors, covered with dirt, twigs, leaves, bits of broken crockery, and other debris blown in through the broken windows. He moved around a few overturned tables and broken chairs, through the kitchen, out the back door to the stable.

The stalls were empty, hooks no longer holding bridles or tack, wooden racks devoid of saddles. He wandered the length of the stable to a backroom. He studied the floor, remembering the feel of the grit and bits of straw against his cheek as he was held down. A lonely stool was outside the door. Gatien sat on a stool cleaning his musket, telling bad jokes or listening to him conjugate verbs in Latin.

He moved across the open square to a cluster of small buildings squatting at the edge of the village. He stood in the doorway of the second hut. A bed frame tilted on three legs, the wooden slats for the mattress splintered. The hooks on the wall, used to hang a few scraps of clothing, were empty. There was nothing else remaining to tell a story of who had lived there or their occupation. He knew who had occupied the small hut and her profession.

He sat on his horse at the top of small hill overlooking the empty village. The road that had been well traveled and maintained now lacked any repairs to its rutted surface. The fires were flaring quickly, devouring the dry buildings, flaming tongues licking through broken windows. He could feel the heat against his skin and his horse moved restlessly under him. The small huts were already destroyed. He watched as the roof of the stable collapsed into the burning building. As the tavern walls started to cave in, he turned his horse and rode away.

Xxx

On the road to Paris, a young woman was riding with four well-armed soldiers from the King’s elite regiment. They were under their captain’s orders to bring her to Paris. She had left the country of her birth when she was a young child and was now, after many years, returning to her native land.

She was not happy to be on this journey. She had been forced to leave the only home she could remember and the closer she came to Paris, the farther away she moved from the people she had loved and who had cared for her. She didn’t know why the French King wanted her back or who was waiting for her in Paris and she didn’t remember any life there.

During the day, she forced her self-control and rode as far as was required without complaint. But when they made camp at night, she lay a distance from the men, turning her back to the fire and the others, allowing the tears to fall, to be overwhelmed by sorrow and worry. She could feel the eyes of their leader on her, but she didn’t try to stop the tears. She wasn’t sure she could stop. Last night, she had suffered a terrible nightmare. Her body felt battered, stiff, and sore and she was very tired. The leader of the soldiers had offered her a day of rest.

‘Porthos has found a small lake not far away. Would you like to go there?’ Her blue eyes widened in astonishment.

‘Yes,’ she said without thinking. ‘I would like that.’

Two of the men rode with her to a small lake bordered by a meadow filled with wildflowers and green grasses waving in a warm breeze. It was beautiful, she thought, like a dream. The dark man took her horse’s reins, smiling at her tilting his chin in the direction of the lake. She looked at their leader and he nodded.

She turned towards the path and then back to him. ‘May I swim?’ she asked. He nodded but did not smile at her.

A rocky outcrop gave her privacy to shed her outer clothing and tentatively, she waded into the water. It was cool, and she sank down to let it cover her shoulders and then submerged her head. She rose to turn onto her back floating, arms extended, her chemise billowing around her and began gently stroking the water. She stared at the clear blue sky above her. She rolled to her stomach and began to swim. It felt good to stretch her muscles and she laughed with the unexpected pleasure.

She pulled herself onto the low rock slab, twisting her hair to squeeze water from it. The rock was warm from the sun and she lay down to dry before dressing. She bent her knees and spread her arms away from her body. The sense of freedom was exhilarating, and the covering sunlight warmed her. She felt her eyes go heavy and begin to close. She rolled to one side. Travel and worry were exacting their toll. Could she rest a moment? It was her last thought before sleep claimed her.

When she woke, the sun was lower in the sky, the breeze had cooled, and she was covered with a blue cape. She had been dreaming. She lay for a moment sleepy and warm under the cloak retrieving the images of her dream. She was at another lake swimming with a boy, laughing and splashing each other. They sat on the small beach sharing an apple. She turned to him and said his name. What was it? She couldn’t remember, only dark hair falling into his dark eyes, a thin body.

Later, after supper, she sat at the table with the men. They talked to each other in low voices, laughing softly and drinking wine. She heard them as murmurings at a distance. She was lost in her own thoughts, her finger tracing, over and over a shape on the table. Suddenly she looked at the shape she was making – a letter. She stared at it for a moment, motionless. A dim memory shifted forward and clicked into place. She said softly to herself, ‘Lucien.’


	10. Sophia

They heard the gentle knock on the door. One man stood, drew his cape around him and withdrew to the back of the room behind heavy drapes that concealed his presence. The second man, still sitting in a chair, called ‘Yes- come in’. A young woman entered carrying a small metal box with a leather bag looped over her shoulder. She smiled at him and went directly to the small fire burning behind the grate and placed the box inside.

‘Burning old love letters?’ the man asked her, while painfully trying to lift his body from the chair. She immediately went to help him, putting her arm around his waist and her shoulder under his.

‘Not exactly’ she answered him smiling at his jest. Together, they made their way to a large chaise where they slowly lowered him, gasping at the pain. He nodded at her gratefully. She lifted his legs onto the chaise and helped him turn onto his stomach. He inhaled sharply with pain, and when the maneuvers were finally completed, he breathed heavily with relief, closing his eyes. She carefully arranged his arms by his side.

‘I have something new from Master Wei. I think it will feel good’ she was busy lifting half empty glasses, sniffing and frowning at the contents. ‘You do too much of this’ she said reproving him. ‘This will only help for a short time.’ 

‘It helps long enough to keep me from taking all of it at one time’ he replied breathing hard with the pain that ran up and down his spine. She rested her hand on his head. She knew he was in agony and there was no cure. There were only treatments that were working for shorter and shorter periods.

‘If not love letters then what are you burning up in my fireplace?’ he asked changing the conversation and tone.

‘Stones’ she replied. I’m heating stones and oil. I think it will bring you enough relief to get some sleep. And better for you than this’ she said picking up the glass and shaking it at him.

‘Interesting’ he said. ‘Sounds a little medieval’. She laughed at him and pulled the box from the fire with tongs, gingerly opening it and setting the contents to cool slightly. She pulled up his shirt and emptied some of the oil into the palm of her hand and gently massaged it onto his back. She picked up the first stone and placed it on the spine. He moaned softly with pain, but the heat felt good.

‘I am cured already my lady.’

The cloaked man, hidden from view, stood perfectly still, clenching his large calloused hands. He was hardly breathing, his brow deeply furrowed, his mind racing and chaotic. It couldn’t be he thought. It cannot be her. He had heard her voice and curiosity caused him to part the curtains where a small opening permitted him to see into the room. He could see her figure from the back as she stooped before the fire. Then she had stood, and turned towards him. 

Chestnut hair, curling and waving, escaping from their pins. Her face was not familiar but when she lifted her face and he saw her eyes, he felt the floor fall away. Their blue iridescent color was unmistakable and memories burst open, overwhelming the dam he had built many years ago to survive the pain and loneliness. 

He had met her when he was stealing food from the kitchen in the big house. He was filling his pockets and he had stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth. He was almost to the door when she ran through it and into the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and stared at him, blue eyes large and winking their strange lights. She was younger than he was – maybe five years old. Her hair was a mass of chestnut curls, worn loose and down as was customary for children. They stared at each other. They could hear the cook returning to the kitchen. She quickly pushed him back into the pantry and closed the door. She left the room calling to the cook that her mother wanted to talk about the dinner menu. He made his escape.

After that, she had come looking for him in the wood, bringing food with her. He was ashamed of his own hunger and need, but she never asked questions, just pressed the packet into his hands. She liked to go to the lake. He taught her to swim. They became friends.

He was hidden in the shrubbery, under the large tree next to the big house. The darkness helped to conceal him from anyone walking by or peering out the window. He had seen the carriages arrive depositing ladies in colorful dresses and fine suited men. The tinkle of glasses and muted conversations floated out the gallery windows.

‘Uh’ he grunted in pain as something hit the top of his head. A second object fell just next to him. A pair of boy’s boots. Her brother’s boots. He quickly matched the sole to his own foot. Too big but it would do. He didn’t have a pair of shoes. A second pair of smaller boots fell – hers and two jackets, one for him. A bag dropped. He looked up and positioned himself under the tree.

She was standing on the window ledge ready to jump to the largest branch and swing herself up onto it. She was so small and it scared him when she did it. He hoped, if she missed the branch, that he would be able to catch her. She never missed. A few minutes later she was clambering down the tree from branch to branch, landing at his feet. She stood up and they grinned at each other. She quickly pulled on her boots and jacket and they made their way as silently as possible around the house. They crouched behind shrubs and low stone walls until they came to the large open park and then they ran as fast as they could to the wood beyond. Once there they stopped and listened. There were no shouts or calls from the guards.

There was a thin veil of moonlight that filtered through the trees. They were now in his domain and he led the way moving swiftly and with certainty along familiar paths as they twisted and turned through the trees. He roamed the woods alone and spent most of his time there. He had no friends and the other villagers scorned his mother and him. She followed him closely. At times they stopped to check a trap or snare they had set in a concealed place. It was dangerous to hunt in the master’s woods. If caught he could lose a hand or worse, be hanged on the spot. But starvation was a severe taskmaster and drove him to take risks. What good were his hands if he were dead he reasoned.

The path led them out of the wood and onto a meadow bordering a small lake. They scrambled over rocks to a small concealed beach, bordered on three sides with rock outcroppings. Once there he built a small fire and she emptied out the contents of the bag. The dinner for the party had been sumptuous. She had brought him half a chicken, roast beef, bread, cheese, quarter of a pie. He watched as she arranged the food on a cloth restraining himself from grabbing it from her hands. She sat back and waited for him to eat. He carefully put half the food aside. He didn’t know when his mother had last eaten. She never asked where food came from – she just ate whatever he brought to her, eyes wandering aimlessly, shrunken body hunched into a chair.

He started with the pie which always made her laugh. ‘Dessert first' she teased him. 

She retrieved the book from the bag and opened it to the place where they had stopped the last time. When he had finished eating, he wiped his fingers on his already dirty pants and took the book from her. She had taught him to read. She had also taught him to write. 

She had a plan. He would go to her father and ask for work. Being able to read and write would impress her father. He could get a job in the stable or kitchens. He would have a place to sleep and food. He never talked about where he lived or his mother and she did not ask. He didn’t tell her that he slept outside most nights. Men came at night to see his mother, sometimes several at once. Men in soldier’s uniforms, some with blue capes slung over their shoulders. They brought wine and threw coins on the floor as they left. His mother often had bruises but she never answered any of his questions. She would finish the wine and sleep. The money didn’t lasted long. Once a soldier, drunk, had rubbed his thin arms and put his hands between his legs. The soldier held up a gold coin. He had let the soldier do what he wanted. Afterwards he threw up and then ran as fast as he could to the lake where he scrubbed his body with sand until it burned. He never told her any of these things.

It was time to go back. The party would be almost over and her nurse would come to her room to check on her. She told him to keep the book and practice. He could give it back to her next time. They walked back through the wood and crossed the park to the tree. As he watched, she climbed up and swung back through the open window. She put her head out the window and waved at him.

There wasn’t a next time. He was approaching the house when he saw blue caped soldiers standing next to two carriages in the driveway. He could hear the shouting coming from inside the house. He crept around the side and peeked into the window. Her mother was struggling at being restrained by two guards. She was sobbing and pleading with her husband. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching a man carry his daughter down the stairs. She was crying, and calling for her mother, kicking her legs and raining her small fists down on the man carrying her. The maid and the nurse followed, both looking uncertain and scared. Trunks were being carried out by servants and loaded onto the carriages. The nurse and maid got into a carriage. The man handed her inside and slammed the carriage door, locking it from the outside. She immediately started hammering her fists against the door and windows. Her father got into the second carriage and they started down the driveway. He could hear her screaming as the carriages rolled away. He sat down and leaned against the house, shaken and breathing hard. He dropped his head into his hands. What had he just seen? Where was she going? Why was her father taking her away?

He left the house and went back through the wood to the lake. He climbed over the rocks to the beach and sat on the soft sand looking out over the lake. He opened the bag he had been carrying and pulled out the book. Tears came to his eyes. There were too many soldiers, he was just a boy, how could he have stopped anything. The tears flowed down his cheeks. He lay down on the sand, hugging the book to his thin chest. He closed his eyes and saw her, beating her fists against the carriage and screaming his name - ‘Lucien! Lucien!’


	11. Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires

Lucien heard the soft click of the door being closed, and then a gentle snore from the room beyond the curtain. Her treatments had worked, Feron had fallen asleep. Still, he remained behind the curtain where he had retreated since hearing the first knock at the door. His mind was racing forwards and backwards in time. She was alive and in Paris. How long had she been here? Did she remember him? Where was she living? How had she been brought here? Questions jockeyed for priority – but there was only one that really mattered - would she remember him?

He left the hidden nook, passing Feron on his way to the door. The man was sleeping on his stomach. Lucien paused and looked at him briefly. Feron knew her. He would have some answers. That interview would have to wait.

He opened the door, closing it softly behind him and paused before stepping into the hallway. There was a steady stream of people - courtiers, ministers, others with state or city business, servants, guards - all moving in the hallway. He knew what he was about to do was foolish, but she was too close for him to do otherwise.  
He stopped a red guard, asking, ‘where does one find the lady Sophia D’ la Croix?’ Lucien was a tall, well-built man, dressed in expensive, tailored clothing, his voice educated, deep and commanding.

The guard straightened automatically in response, saying, ‘Sir, I do not know at this moment, but she has rooms at the end of the second-floor gallery or she is often in the gardens.’ Lucien nodded, dismissing him, and the man moved off. He would try her rooms first.

He took the stairs two at a time, trying to think through the next few minutes, but found he could not organize his thoughts. Was he just going to knock on the door? This was madness, but that is the state that seemed to be racing to take over his thoughts and actions. She was here!

He reached the second floor, walking quickly, and weaving his way through the crowd. He avoided eye contact, while surreptitiously eyeing the faces that passed by him. He turned in the direction the guard had indicated, walking swiftly toward the far end of the chain of galleries.

And then, he saw her. She was walking towards him in the company of a Musketeer, a blue cape slung over his shoulder. She was listening to him as they walked along the gallery. The Musketeer was ignoring everyone in the hallway, looking neither right nor left. His head was bent to hers with his long discourse. She was attending on him, but unlike him, she was watching the crowd in the hallway, her eyes running over figures and faces, nodding briefly in response to those who acknowledged her as she passed by. He stopped and stepped out of the stream of traffic and stood against the wall, next to a tall chest that afforded him some concealment, and watched her approach.

Time slowed. He couldn’t take his eyes from her and didn’t realize he was also holding his breath. She had grown to medium height, straight and slender, moving with the confidence and grace bestowed by physical strength and agility. Her face was familiar – strong jawline, high cheekbones, but the cheeks had narrowed from their childhood plumpness. Her hair had darkened to a rich golden chestnut, waving and curling around her face, escaping the thick braid that fell almost to her waist. But it was her eyes that marked her – large, deep set, framed by dark lashes and winged eyebrows, their remarkable iridescence glimmering, as though the light was swirling through the myriad shades of blue that made up their vivid color. Intelligence, curiosity, and strength radiated from those eyes and face. He would have known her anywhere.

He stood, transfixed, as she came closer, her eyes wandering over the crowd, still listening to her companion. For a moment, his gaze flickered to the man walking next to her, his stern face and dark eyes not seeing anyone passing by, only continuing his extended speech to her. When Lucien looked back to her, she was staring at him.

He sucked in his breath and their eyes locked. She studied him, her expression perplexed, slowing her step, and furrowing her brow. Someone jostled her from behind, and she stumbled, breaking their visual link. The man next to her caught her arm. She looked up at him and then quickly back to where he had been standing. Suddenly panicked by the possibility of her remembering and identifying him, he had seized the interruption to step behind the tall chest that now concealed him completely. When she looked back at where he had been standing, he was gone.

From the shadows he watched her stop and scan the hallway. The Musketeer paused, looking at her for explanation. She spoke to him briefly, not taking her eyes away from her search. The Musketeer waited patiently and then gave her arm a gentle tug. She nodded and continued in their original direction, turning several times to look over her shoulder. Then, they disappeared into the next gallery.

Lucien left the palace and retrieved his horse from the stable boy. He mounted and rode slowly through the park to the road leading into the city. He was not fully aware of where he was going. His mind was chaotic with emotions. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

He dismounted behind the house, handing the reins to the boy. He walked through the kitchens and up the stairs to his rooms. He lay down on the bed. He thought back to the night that soldiers with blue capes had carried her away, screaming his name and fighting to escape, and all the lonely, miserable nights since then, when he had laid under the stars wondering where she had gone, if she ever thought of him, and would she ever return.

The ache of the empty years ran hard and deep within him – loneliness, hunger, caring for his mother, struggling against the bleak realities of his life. Long harsh days, cold and solitary nights, a drowning boy clinging to his memories. At times he thought he had imagined her and that she had vanished into some illusory haze of his longings. Now, he let his mind drift back in time.

Shunned by the villagers for his mother’s trade, she had been his only friend. They had met when she ran into him as he was stealing food from her kitchen. She had shielded him from getting caught. Without comment she brought him food, her brother’s discarded clothes and boots. She taught him to read, but he loved it when she read to him. She would race her horse to the forest, bareback because she wasn’t big enough to saddle her horse, a small dun mare with white mane and tail. He would swing up behind her and they would ride deep into the forest. She helped him with his traps, and they swam in the lake. She seemed fearless and could be reckless, and he stayed close to her, fearing she would bring harm to herself. She didn’t say much about her family, but he knew it wasn’t a happy one and the fact that she wandered the countryside with him meant they didn’t pay much attention to her.

He reached for the book he kept at his bedside. He rolled to his side, leaning on his elbow, opening it and turning the pages, tracing the pictures with his fingers, remembering her voice as she read to him. Tales of places he had never heard of, fantastical adventures and heroes.

One night, after she was gone, he had climbed up the tree and trellis to her open window and dropped into the room. It was still and silent, toys put away in trunks, books stacked on shelves, bed neatly made. He looked into her clothes cupboard, only a few dresses remained. He found the book on the table by her bed. There was a locket next to it that she had worn. It held a lock of her hair. He lay down on her bed, his head on her pillow, listening to the stillness. She was not coming back.

Pain and loneliness opened inside him into a dark and seething anger, that would intensify, ominously fueled by relentless hunger, cold and fear. He had put the locket around his neck, tucked the book inside his shirt, and climbed down the tree. He never returned.


	12. It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves

He sat on a stone bench, deep in shadows, in the gardens below the balcony that led from the ballroom. The event had been going on for several hours, sounds of the chatter of men and women, tapping of dancing feet, clinking glassware, and music carried out the open windows and doors, drifting along on the gentle breezes of the night air. The glittering chandeliers, aglow with candles sent light streaming onto the balconies, lighting small circles just outside the open French doors. He chuckled to himself, that here he was, once again, hiding in shadows next to the house in which she lived. But this time, he wasn’t waiting for her to climb down to him from a tree.

It had been four weeks since he had seen her in the hallway of the palace. Since then, he had her followed by his most trusted men and women. He had agents in the palace, on the grounds, within the staff that served her, and throughout the city. Their expert surveillance began the moment she awoke, until late in the evening when she retired, and all light was extinguished from her rooms. Even then, he would sit on his horse, within the covering of a large tree, watching. He already knew that she did not sleep well and often was awake in the middle of the night, pacing the room or curled up in the window seat, staring out into the night. What was she thinking? he wondered. Why couldn’t she sleep?

She had arrived in Paris six months ago. The circumstances surrounding her return, after such a long period of time, were mysterious. The Musketeers had brought her to the city, and Treville was involved. The details were coming in slowly, but he did not yet have the full picture. He knew magistrates were reviewing estate matters and there was a petition to have her assume legal authority over her estates and finances.

The court was curious about her and found opportunities to engage her whenever she traveled through the halls or galleries. She did not like this attention. She did not like palace life, preferring to stay almost anywhere else, rotating her time between rooms in the palace, her empty and somewhat rundown family home in the Marais, and a furnished gardener’s room that was attached to the greenhouses. Treville, rightly concerned for her safety, insisted she stay in the palace, an order she often ignored. He had secured apartments at the very end of a long series of galleries. There would be no reason for anyone to be there except those visiting her. This was as much privacy as he could secure for her. There was a separate entrance onto the balcony that led into the apartment and stairs going down to the park grounds that extended from the side and back of the palace. No doubt, she viewed this as a means of escape. Lucien looked at it with the very same purpose in mind.

She had been allowed to establish a garden, growing medicinal plants. She spent considerable time in the company of Dr Lemay, as he was interested in her knowledge of and practice with medicinal plants and she often accompanied him on visits to his patients. Lucien had frowned darkly at this association with the doctor, but his agents assured him that there was no impropriety. The doctor seemed to have romantic inclinations toward another lady at the court.

She helped a few palace servants with simple remedies and as a result, her reputation as a healer spread quickly throughout the poorer sections of Paris. She responded to pleas for help – and traveled to unsavory sections of the city to treat sick children and injured adults who had no other options. Treville had charged the Musketeers with her security and she was heard, arguing with the Musketeer known as Athos, about her movements within the city. He insisted on a Musketeer escort, assigning cadets or other officers to her. She was much the same as she had been as a child -willful and impatient and highly independent. She chafed at restrictions. Lucien knew the Musketeer was right to be concerned about these areas of the city and risks to her. He was amused at the irony of the juxtaposition of their roles. He could guarantee her safety. If he gave the order, she would be guarded by his people, unseen to her, but known to others. No one would touch her.

The Queen favored her and Sophia accompanied her on her daily morning promenade in the gardens. She was allowed free access to the King’s library and she and the Queen could be found there in the afternoons, Sophia reading to the Queen. The Queen and certain other noble ladies were helping her with her wardrobe. He laughed when he read in one report that she refused to wear a corset. The palace dressmakers had to scramble to redesign the gowns they had made for her, fixing stays within the dress for better comfort. She could be stubborn.

And she could be loyal. She rode to her family estate visiting the tenants and meeting with the agents. A parcel of land on the other side of the estate, bordering the small lake had been sold recently to pay taxes to the Crown. No one knew who had purchased the land. She rode to the small monastery where Sister Agatha still lived and stayed for several days. Everywhere she went, she asked if anyone knew what had become of the boy known as Lucien, dark eyes and hair. A few remembered him. No one knew where he had gone or what had become of him. She was told that all those who had lived in the old village had moved away and, recently, the buildings had burned down. No one knew how the fire had started.

He unrolled the scrolls that had accompanied one report. It was a series of drawings. He looked at the name of the agent and smiled. In addition to being a trusted spy, Henri was a talented artist and intelligent. His employer would appreciate his drawings that were included with his reports.

In the first scroll, she was sitting sideways on a bench, probably on the palace grounds. There were two drawings on the page – in the top drawing she was sitting sideways on a bench, legs stretched out in front of her on the seat. In the drawing on the lower half of the page, she was sitting with her knees drawn up, against which she balanced a book, her head bent to it. He smiled as he studied her - not exactly a manner of sitting customary for aristocratic daughters.

The second scroll was a drawing that was done in the market, as she walked among the tables of wares, stopping to talk to a merchant – her dress simple in style and fitted to her slender figure, a broad brimmed hat shading her from the hot sun. He could see her smiling – perhaps the merchant made a joke, or they were enjoying their bargaining.

In the third drawing she was standing at the edge of the pond in the public park. It showed, in the distance, the pedestrian bridge and the rushes that lined the pond shore. She might have been watching the swans and ducks that floated on its smooth surface. Something behind her caught her attention and she turned to look. She was smiling, affectionate to whomever she was looking at. Her hair was caught in a gentle breeze, and it drifted back across her bare shoulders.

So, he followed her, watched her, read reports about her, and thought about how to approach her. For all he knew about her, he had no idea how she might react to him when they finally met. But he couldn’t put it off much longer. He didn’t want to put it off any longer. He looked up toward the balcony.


	13. A Trojan horse

The horse was beautiful. The animal had caught her attention as soon as she stepped through the stone archway that marked the boundary of the settlement area. Andalusian, she thought – she had never seen one before. They were rare outside of Spain. She approached the horse, murmuring and lifting her hand to stroke the silky nose.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered, to no one in particular. The horse pushed his nose into her chest and she laughed softly with pleasure and gently scratched behind his ears, speaking to him quietly in Arabic. The rider, suddenly aware of her presence, stopped speaking to the Musketeer standing to the side and looked down at her. He felt his chest tighten and his heart started to pound.

‘Beautiful, indeed,’ he murmured softly. The Musketeer frowned, looking at him sharply and then at the woman stroking the horse. The exchange with the Musketeer had been tense, the soldier suspicious of him. His spontaneous reaction to her had not improved the Musketeer’s attitude. He had not expected to see her here. She didn’t seem to remember him from the palace. He let out a quiet breath of relief.

‘Does my horse understand you my lady?’ Lucien inquired, smiling at her. He ignored the Musketeer and gazed down at her. She didn’t look at him, but answered, ‘All horses are related to the great stallions of the Arabian plains,’ she said seriously, but with a smile. ‘So yes, I think he understands me.’

The rider laughed, ‘then I should learn his language, or perhaps can you interpret for me?’ She laughed too.

‘Wherever did you get him? They are so rarely seen outside of Spain.’

‘A debt was owed. I took him as payment,’ Lucien was watching her intently, oblivious to the warning stare of the Musketeer. He had forgotten the soldier was standing there.

‘How is he to ride?’ she asked, moving to the side of the horse and running her hand along his neck. ‘I have heard they are intelligent and quick to learn.’ She was stroking her long slender fingers through the animal’s thick mane and he wondered how those fingers would feel tangled in his hair.

‘You must ride him yourself my lady,’ he told her. ‘I will send him to you.’

Startled, she looked up at the rider, saying, ‘I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous offer. I apologize if I seemed to be asking a favor.’

‘No apology needed, my lady,’ he affirmed. ‘It would be my honor for you to ride him and to give me your opinion of him.’

She was studying him, her eyes traveling over his face. Dark hair, hazel eyes with glinting golden highlights, sensuous mouth – a handsome man. ‘Have we met sir?’ she asked him curiously. He looked familiar and she was sure she had seen him recently.

‘I would have remembered meeting you my lady,’ he replied smiling and gallant. He needed to leave before her memory improved. This wasn’t the place or the time for her to remember him. He touched his hat to her, ‘Apologies, but I must take my leave.’ He nodded to the forgotten Musketeer and turned his horse.

Silently she watched him ride away, puzzled as to his abrupt departure, why he seemed familiar and searching her memory for where she might have met him. The Musketeer didn’t move. He had not liked what he had just observed.

‘Are you finished?’ he asked her irritably. She heard the tone in his voice and turned around.

‘What’s wrong? I cannot do anymore here today – I need to mix more medicines,’ she replied. She gave him a placating smile and took his arm. ‘Are you walking me back or handing me off to a cadet?’ she tried to imitate his irritated tone at being discharged to a cadet. They were watching a young man trotting hurriedly towards them, carefully threading his way through the crowd.

‘Guillame will walk you back. I must meet Treville at the garrison,’ Athos told her. She pursed her lips at him, feigning petulance, but turned to greet the young man, flushed with running from the garrison.

‘Good heavens Guillame - stop running in this heat or I will need to take care of you as well!’ she admonished the young man. He turned even more red under her teasing and stammered, ‘I am fine my lady,’ he gasped as he drew up to them. Athos scowled at the young man and turned to Sophia, ‘I hope he can make it back to the palace.’

She laughed and took the young man’s arm and waved as they set off back to the palace. Aramis emerged from the settlement, walking quickly towards him.

‘Who were you talking to?’ he asked Athos. He was asking about the rider of the horse. Even from a distance, he had not liked the look of the man.

‘I wasn’t talking to him long enough to find out,’ Athos replied shortly.

‘Can’t blame the man for finding her more interesting than you,’ Aramis admonished. ‘You need to practice being charming for a change.’ Athos snorted.

‘She thought she recognized him,’ he told Aramis. ‘Really? Where did she meet him?’ Aramis frowned in alarm. ‘Should we be concerned?’

Athos shook his head, not knowing what to be concerned about first. ‘She didn’t know, but she’s not going to stop thinking about it,’ her persistence could be very annoying. ‘She may go looking for him as he has a horse she admires and offered to let her ride,’ he said throwing up his hands in frustration at this new problem.

‘Dammit - I wish she’d give up this search. There's no time for this.’ He was referring to Sophia’s inquiries into a boy she had known as a child. She was determined to find him and it puzzled Athos and Treville why it was so important to her. It was unknown what manner of man he was likely to be. She didn’t attach much consideration to his warning.

‘Let’s go,’ he said to Aramis. ‘Why does he want to see us?’ asked Aramis.

‘Rochefort,’ replied Athos and the two men started walking towards the garrison.

xxx

‘A message, my lady,’ the maid handed her a sealed note. Sophia tore it open and read it quickly. Her blue eyes widened in surprise. She ran for the door. In the yard the Andalusian stallion was being held by a stable boy. He looked at her for instructions.

‘He’s a beauty,’ remarked the stable boy. ‘Is he a gift my lady?’

‘On loan,’ she replied excitedly. ‘His owner is going away for a fortnight and is leaving him with me.’

‘Take him to the stable and saddle him,’ she said happily, ‘I’ll be there shortly.’ She ran back to her apartments to change.

The horse was a dream to ride. Responsive and cooperative to the slightest pressure of her legs or hands, they had flowed over the trails in the parkland and King’s wood. She had dared to take the main road out of the city. It was well traveled she rationalized so she ignored the considerations of being unaccompanied. She could ride faster on the open road and she could feel the animal’s muscles tensing under her in anticipation. They surged forward.

An hour later, she turned around and walked the stallion back towards the city. She released her feet from the stirrups and leaned forward to lie against the animals’ neck, wrapping her arms around him. She whispered in Arabic, ‘you are a prince my beauty.’ It had been a long time since she had felt this measure of freedom and simple happiness.

‘He’s beautiful,’ Treville agreed, running his hands over the stallion’s withers. They were in the barn where she was brushing him. ‘I have no objection to you riding the horse, but who is the man who sent him to you?’ She shrugged – Athos had been talking with him. She assumed he knew the mysterious rider.

‘Can you explain to me how we do not know the name of this man?’ he inquired irritably of his Musketeers. They had been searching and asking questions, but no one was answering them.

For the next two weeks, she rode the stallion every day. At the end of the time he had said he would be away, she waited for him to come and reclaim the horse. But the man never appeared. She studied his note – it was signed with only a letter, G. How ridiculous she thought – she didn’t even know his name!

‘Did you know the man?’ she inquired of the stableboy. The boy hesitated. The man had been to the palace on previous occasions. She pressed him,’ who is he? Do you know where he lives?’

‘Yes, my lady’ the boy said. ‘I take messages to him from M. Feron.’

‘Where do you take these messages?’ she asked excitedly.

xxx

She dismounted before a two-storied warehouse. A tavern with attached inn was next door. The buildings were set along a wide street running parallel to the river. It was teeming with dock workers, merchants, rivermen. Wagons and their drivers were lined up along the side of the road waiting for cargo to be off loaded. There was a short road leading from the street toward the docks that extended a brief distance from the wharf. She looked around, trying to decide what to do next, when the door to the tavern opened and he stepped out, accompanied by a boy.

‘Did you forget your horse Monsieur?’ she asked, smiling at him and holding out the reins. He smiled in return and took the reins from her, handing them to the boy who led the horse away. She watched the horse until he disappeared around the back of the building and sighed. She would miss her daily rides.

‘No,’ he said, watching her rueful expression. ‘I was sure he was well looked after in your tender care, and I have other horses.’ He took her arm to lead her into the tavern. She hesitated. She should not be going into a tavern, unaccompanied and with a man who was a stranger to her. She looked at him uncertainly.

‘Ah,’ he said, suddenly understanding the problem. A serving girl had appeared in the doorway and he spoke to her briefly.

‘Shall we walk to the dock?’ he asked pleasantly. Relieved, she nodded quickly and followed him across the street.

‘Did you enjoy riding him?’ he asked her, taking her arm to walk around the rutted road towards a low bench set at the back on the dock. There was a riverboat tied at the end of the short dock, but no activity of loading or unloading or men walking to or from the boat. They were alone.

‘He was wonderful,’ she enthused and launched into a vivid description their rides and the stallion’s performance. He did not interrupt her, eyes amused as he watched her animated face. After a lengthy monologue, she paused and blushed, embarrassed at her passionate account.

‘It was the most enjoyment I’ve had in a very long time.’ She looked down and studied her hands, biting her lip to suppress the sudden tears she felt in her eyes. He was silent and wondering - why the tears?

The serving girl appeared with two glasses on a tray and set it on the table. She brushed away the tears quickly and looked at him, ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to share spirits with you sir,’ she blushed again, uneasily. He was standing very close to her and she could smell the soap he used.

‘Surely no can object to us sharing lemonade?’ he said seriously, handing her a cool glass.

Her eyes widened, and she looked at the glass he had placed in her hand. She laughed, ‘no I suppose not.’ She sipped the sweet drink and lifted her glass to him - ‘delicious.’

‘Is this your business establishment?’ she asked, turning to indicate the tavern and attached building.

‘I own the tavern building, but the business inside belongs to another,’ he answered. ‘I own the warehouse,’ he offered. He did not mention the bordello that was at the back of the tavern.

‘What is your business then?’ she asked. Her questions bordered on impertinence, but she was curious. And, she didn’t want to leave yet. She felt comfortable with him but could not explain his familiarity to her. She didn’t know his name and didn’t want to ask him. She ran a hand over her hair, confused but not afraid.

‘I procure things and sell them,’ he answered. She looked puzzled and asked, ‘how do you procure things?’ using his own phrase deliberately.

‘I sell goods obtained by others to interested parties,’ he wasn’t trying to be evasive, but he did not want to explain his business in detail – at least not yet. But she was too quick for him.

‘Privateers?’ she asked, the lights in her blue eyes shimmering with interest. She had never met a privateer. Were they all this handsome she wondered idly watching the golden glints in his eyes.

‘Sometimes,’ he was startled and evasive. How did she know so much?

‘Privateers are licensed by their governments,’ he reminded her. It was not an illegal activity – only a nefarious one.

‘Such as weapons?’ she asked. ‘That would be a lucrative ‘procurement’ – would it not?’ Once again, he was surprised, and he showed it. She smiled, secretly pleased, and said, ‘not just a silly woman.’

‘Not just a beautiful woman,’ he countered. ‘May I ask how you are so informed on the matter of privateers and weapons?’

‘Oh, a recent experience,’ she waved her hand to dismiss a recitation of the events. ‘Another time perhaps.’

‘I will hold you to that,’ he said firmly. He was intrigued and determined to learn more. What kind of life had she led? Knowledgeable about weapons and privateers, but reluctant to enter a tavern or drink alcohol with an unfamiliar man. And she blushes easily. Quite a series on contradictions.

‘So, would you say you are a sponsor of war?’ she asked daringly. But she smiled as she said it to show she wasn’t trying to be offensive. He smiled back – he took no offense.

‘Not as successfully as Rome, but I suppose one could say that weapons either ensure or deter war, depending on what is at stake,’ he said carefully, hoping his voice was as neutral as he intended. She quirked her mouth, looked amused at his answer.

‘You and the Pope,’ she remarked ironically, ‘masters of international diplomacy!’ He roared with laughter. She was delightful.

He handed her into the carriage to return her to the palace and watched it roll away. She was intensely curious about him, but he wasn’t ready to tell her who he was. She hadn’t asked his name. Perhaps she already knew who he was.


	14. Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.

She rolled to her back and stared at the canopy above the bed. Pulling up her knees, she rubbed her eyes with her fingers and dropped her arms away from her body, sighing heavily. She couldn’t sleep.

Her mind was racing, her body restless with remembrances of his hand on her arm as he helped her into the carriage, the brush of his fingers against hers as he handed her a glass of lemonade. She giggled to herself, rolling to her side at the memory of his serious face, amusement gleaming in his dark and gold flecked eyes as he handed her the glass, the way he watched her as she gushed like a silly child over riding the stallion. He must think her giddy and ridiculous.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed, stood and walked to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. She felt hot, her skin warm to her touch – as though she had a fever. She didn’t feel ill – but she needed to get out of these rooms. She walked back to her dressing table and picked up the note from Treville. He was going away for a fortnight to the estate of the Duke of Lorraine and the Musketeers were leaving to meet a relative of the King and escort her to Paris. She smiled and wished she had been able to caution Athos about keeping a lookout for more Persian spies – he probably would not have thought it funny. But their absence presented her with an opportunity. It would be dawn soon.

She strode to the stables. The sleepy stable boy looked up at her in surprise but moved quickly to saddle her horse. She pulled her long riding coat around her, settled her hat on her head and swung herself up into the saddle.

‘I’m meeting the stewards and house staff in the park,’ she lied, smiling at the concern on the boy’s face. He nodded, looking relieved that she wasn’t riding out alone. He watched her ride away, noting that she was not going in the direction of the park. Maybe he had misunderstood her. He turned back to the stable to return to his cot. It would be another hour before he needed to rise for the day.

xxx

She crested the hill from which the long drive descended to the house. She stopped for a moment, looking down at the manor. The last time she had been here, she was in the company of soldiers and spies, searching for a treasure hidden by her father. Secrets had been revealed. What other secrets were there yet undiscovered? She lifted the reins and urged her horse forward.

xxx

The man entered the office silently. He closed the door behind him and waited. Outside the window behind the desk, the night sky was lightening with the arrival of dawn. The man at the desk had a blanket around his shoulders against the early morning chill in the room. He raised a finger in acknowledgement of his presence but kept writing on the paper in front of him. He finished, dropping the quill on the tray, and sat back, rounding his shoulders to stretch his back and rubbing his stubbled cheek. He had not slept well. He sat back in his chair and nodded for the man to approach him.

‘She has left the palace,’ the man said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk. ‘She rode out before dawn, wearing long coat and trousers,’ he added.  


Lucien frowned. Why disguise herself as a man? ‘Going where?’ The man shrugged. ‘The boy said she told him she was riding with stewards and house servants. No one saw these people. She was heading for the north west road.’

‘Is anyone following her?’ The man nodded, ‘Henri.’ Good thought Lucien. She wasn’t on the open road completely alone. He shook his head at her recklessness – she shouldn’t be on the road without an escort. Where was she going? Where was Treville and the Musketeers?

He thought for a moment and then turned back to the man, ‘get my horse saddled.’ He suddenly knew where she was going.

xxx

‘My lady!’ the old woman exclaimed as she rushed into the entryway from the kitchen. ‘We didn’t know you were coming.’ The stable man had appeared in her kitchen announcing that their mistress had ridden into the yard – alone. She was flustered at the unexpected appearance of her mistress and confused by her being attired in men’s clothing. What was the meaning of it?

‘I’m sorry Brigid,’ her mistress took her by the hand, ‘it was a sudden decision. Please, do not worry. You need not make a fuss.’

‘William will bring more wood to light the fires,’ the old woman continued as though her mistress had not said a word about not worrying. That was her job after all. ‘I’ll bring you hot tea and breakfast in the morning room.’

‘That will be fine,’ said Sophia, smiling warmly at her anxious servant. ‘Please heat more water – it was a dusty ride.’

Two hours later Brigid was slightly happier. Her mistress had eaten a good breakfast and was bathed and properly attired in a dress. She was not happy that there was no maid to dress her lady’s hair. Her mistress dismissed her concern over the missing lady’s maid and sent her and William to the market for supplies.

Sophia wandered through the rooms on the first floor. They were kept clean, rugs beaten regularly, dusted, brasses polished, and windows washed. The rooms seemed to be waiting for their missing occupants. Paper was lined up on her father’s desk, ink well filled, quills in the tray. The small portraits of her and her brothers and their mother sat on the table behind her father’s desk. She sat in her father’s chair studying the small portrait of her and her twin brother. He had led her to the missing treasure. She ran her fingers over his baby cheeks and smiling mouth. She wished she could remember him clearly, but it was a series of fragmented scenes that appeared before her – a baby hand gripping her arm as they held onto each other learning to walk, digging in the sand at a beach, or his body against hers listening to a voice. It must have been their mother as she read to them. But that was all.

She drifted through the dining room and drawing room toward the kitchen. This is where she met Lucien. She had literally run into him as she came through the back door. He was emerging from the pantry, bread in his mouth and stuffing more in his pockets. Thin, dark hair and eyes – she had pushed him back into the pantry and ran to divert the cook’s entrance. He escaped.

She went slowly up the staircase and down the hallway towards the schoolroom. She stood in the middle of the room staring down at the blue carpet. She had been lying on this carpet, studying the atlas opened before her when the soldier's form filled the doorway and he entered, lifting her and carrying her from the room, down the stairs, past her mother, sobbing and pleading with her father. Then, she was out the door, put into a carriage and the door shut and locked. The carriage rolled away, her fists pounding the door and windows, crying out.

She continued down the hall to her room. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Her canopied bed was neatly made and covered with a white sheet. Her only doll was sitting in a chair, legs extended, eyes opened wide and mouth rounded, clutching her own tiny doll as though worried that someone might try to take away her only companion. There were a few books on the shelves. Her father had brought most of her books with them on their journey. The book she had hastily tossed onto her bedside table was gone. She ran her fingers over the vacated place wondering if he had taken it.

She walked to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open. She leaned out he window to look at the ground below and then to the tree that grew a few feet from the ledge.

‘I hope you are not thinking of trying to scramble down that tree,’ a deep male voice behind her. ‘Catching you now would be an entirely different proposition.’ She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice. She swallowed hard but did not turn around. She was not surprised that he was here.

‘It was you,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice even. ‘In the palace. The horse.’

‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. He could see the tremble of her shoulders, the rise and fall of her breathing. He wanted to stride to her, turn her in his arms and hold her to reassure her. But he wasn’t sure. So, he waited, his heart hammering so hard he wondered that she couldn’t hear it.

She turned to him, and his chest contracted at her anxious face. She pressed her hands together, hunching her shoulders trying to control their trembling. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I wasn’t sure you would remember me. Or want me to tell you,’ he dissembled and then told the truth, ‘I was afraid.’

‘That I wouldn’t remember you?’ she asked, her eyes widening at him in disbelief.

He shrugged, ‘all of it. I thought it might help to get to know each other a little.’ He raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes darkening. He didn't have all the answers. He looked at her, apologetic, ‘I wasn’t trying to trick you.’ She nodded and hugging her arms around her chest, shivering. 

He frowned at her, alarmed at her appearance. She was no longer just trembling, but shaking, her face crumpled in confusion and hurt. Her blue eyes stark against her pale face, tears hovering at their corners.

‘You don’t exactly look happy to see me,’ he said softly, teasing her. She gasped, and her hands came to her cheeks.

‘Lucien – I never stopped remembering you,’ she whispered, tears overflowing and running down her cheeks. His head snapped up and with long strides, he crossed the room to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pressing her head to his shoulder. Slowly her arms came around him. Tears soaked his shirt. He released one hand and shrugged his long coat from his shoulders, placing it around her. Her skin was like ice.

‘Let’s go downstairs where I can build a fire. You are too cold,’ he told her, taking her hand and leading her from the room.

He settled her on a sofa, adding a blanket to her lap and turned to the fireplace. In a few moments the fire was roaring. He pulled the sofa closer to it. She laughed, ‘the housekeeper won’t like us moving the furniture from its place.’

‘I don’t give a damn about it’s place, I want you warm,’ he replied firmly, ready to take on the housekeeper. ‘Where’s the wine kept?’ he asked her. ‘Kitchen I think,’ she replied, ‘or dining room.’

He walked back from the dining room with a decanter of brandy and poured it for her, placing the glass in her hands. He didn’t release it, ‘have you got it?’ he asked. She nodded and sniffed at the contents.

‘I thought only gentlemen drank brandy,’ she smiled at him over the rim.

‘Not today,’ he replied and still covering her hand with his, he raised the glass to her lips and she took a sip, wrinkling her nose. He laughed. ‘Think of it as medicine,’ he advised, and raised the glass again.

He sat back and looked at her. Her hands were warming, and color was appearing in her cheeks. He brushed her hair back from her forehead, ‘better?’ he asked softly, his eyes traveling over her face. She nodded slightly, and leaned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder. His arm went around her again and they sat in silence, staring into the fire.

‘Lucien,’ she murmured. ‘Mmm,’ he answered.

‘What happened to you? I have so many questions,’ she said into his chest.

He nodded, fingers stroking her cheek, ‘so do I.’ He lifted her chin to look into her eyes, ‘we have time Sophie. Or are you planning another vanishing act?’ he was teasing but also questioning. 

'I didn't plan the first one,' she said ruefully. She shook her head, ‘no.’

She sat upright, looking at him thoughtfully, ‘where do we start?’ He smiled at her. He couldn’t stop touching her – brushing her hair from her eyes and trailing his fingers over her cheeks, stroking her arm. He needed to know she was real, his emotions riotous and barely controllable. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

‘Let’s take a ride,’ he said.


	15. the feeling was without a name like the true colour of light... (from Lekshmy Sujathan)

‘I thought it was here,’ he said, frowning in frustration and twisting to look around him. He bent over, digging through the underbrush. ‘It must be covered over by all this,’ he waved at the offending shrubbery as the excuse for his inability to find his own hunting snares.

‘Uh huh,’ she replied, non-committal to his excuses. She was leaning against her horse, watching him with interest and smiling in amusement. She took a bite of the apple she was holding.

‘It’s good you have an alternative occupation,’ she commented, ‘poaching in the lord’s wood doesn’t seem a good option for you, especially if you cannot find your own snares,’ she was grinning at him. He snorted at her and stood upright, hands on his hips, scowling and surveying the ground.

‘I was sure it was here,’ he said under his breath. He glowered at her, ‘why don’t you remember where it was?’ he challenged.

‘I just followed you! Remember?’ she denied any culpability for finding illegal traps. She walked towards him, handing him the apple. He took a bite and sighed. ‘I give up.’ She laughed at him again. He narrowed his eyes at her and tossed the apple core into the brush.

‘My male pride cannot take much more of you giggling at me,’ he cautioned her. Her eyes widened in mock fear and she laughed harder. He shook his head at her, warningly and stepped toward her. Suddenly he was throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest but was still laughing.

‘Enough,’ he told her firmly and tossed her onto her horse.

‘Do all pirates have such easily wounded pride?’ she asked him, settling into the saddle and trying to suppress her laughter.

‘Yes,’ he said with mock severity. ‘So, beware my lady.’ He handed the reins to her. She leaned down to him the lights in her blue eyes winking in amusement at him.

‘I am forewarned sir,’ she giggled and turned her horse back to the trail.

‘Where are you going?’ he called to her mounting his horse to follow her.

‘I want to see the village,’ her voice drifted back to him as she moved away. He frowned, started to object and then stopped. He didn’t have a good reason to dissuade her and maybe it was best to not make an issue of it. She would go anyway.

They had been out riding since morning, stopping at the abbey first. The aged and stooped Sister Agatha had been surprised and delighted at their visit, tears appearing in her cornflower blue eyes as Lucien took her hands and planted a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. She and Sophia had met in Paris shortly after Sophia returned, but she had not seen Lucien in many years.

’Do you remember playing here?’ The old nun asked them. They were walking in the orchard, the woman clinging to Lucien’s arm for support. He slowed his step to accommodate her hesitant gait.

‘Sophia climbed trees faster than you,’ the old nun teased the man, who was smiling at the memory. ‘She likes to think she did,’ he said playfully. ‘I let her win, or she sulked all day.’

‘I never did!’ Sophia objected, ‘I was the most gracious of losers.’ Both Sister Agatha and Lucien laughed at her, the old nun admonishing her, ‘an abbey is bad place to bend the truth my dear.’

‘Where have you been all this time Lucien? I have often wondered where you went – after Gatien’s death,’ the nun’s voice saddened at the name of the Musketeer who had come to Lucien’s aid, befriended a poor boy, and at the end of his life, been his benefactor. Together, she and the Musketeer had found the means to educate Lucien – a boy they knew to be intelligent and for whom, despite his impoverished beginnings, they held high hopes. Sophia listened attentively to the stories about the Musketeer who had been crucial to Lucien’s life. Neither she nor Lucien mentioned his current occupation as part of the world of privateers and sanctioned pirates.

‘Gatien wanted him to join the Musketeers,’ Sister Agatha informed Sophia, ‘but I knew he could be an wonderful priest. Perhaps you will yet,’ she said optimistically to him, ‘It is never too late to hear God’s call.’ He smiled at her warmed by her confidence in him.

‘Let me tell you at story of a man who heard God’s call….’ Lucien told a story of a pirate he knew who claimed he heard God calling his name as he was charging along a gangplank to raid a Spanish settlement – an interesting time to hear the Lord’s voice advising a change in one’s vocation. He winked at Sophia over the nun’s head.

They took their leave, promising to return soon. Raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, the old nun watched the two young people she had known as children ride away. She stood in the doorway of the abbey long after they had disappeared from sight. She had seen the way they looked at each other. It wouldn’t be easy, she thought – the differences in rank and family were not insignificant impediments to love. But, she had no doubt they would find a way to be together. They had always found a way.

They had stopped at the lake where Lucien had taught her to swim and where they often retreated to read books, or hide from older village boys who harassed Lucien.

‘Still think you can beat me?’ she asked him, turning to look at him. She was pulling her boots off. He snorted, ‘yes, of course’ he waved his hand dismissively at her. With a slightly concerned expression, he watched her run toward the lake. He had been acutely aware of her all day – riding her horse next to him with easy strength and grace, vaulting into her saddle and keeping pace with him as they strode through the woods. Her dark hair, streaked with gold, was unbound and framing her face, the iridescent blue eyes were shining at him, her beautiful mouth laughing. He watched her feeling more than a little discomfited – he wasn’t sure he could manage his response to seeing her take off her clothes and leap into a lake – even in undergarments.

‘Come on,’ she called to him and clad in her chemise she ran to the edge of the stone outcrop and jumped into the lake. She surfaced quickly, squealing and laughing, ‘it’s freezing!’ she called to him. Good he thought. In his current circumstances, that could only help him. He pulled his shirt over his head.

He reached out his hand to pull her up to the stony ledge. They both dropped down, breathing hard. She curled her legs under her and leaned back on her hands.  


‘Did you come here often?’ she asked him, ‘after I left?’ He glanced at her and smiled, nodding. This was where Sophia had concocted the plan for him to work for her father. It was where Lucien came the day she had been taken away, holding her book to him, and crying for the loss of her. It was where he had come when he learned of Gatien’s death.

‘Come on,’ he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. ‘It’s getting late and we still have the woods.’

‘And the village,’ she said, stepping into her skirt and fastening the ties. ‘And the castle ruins.’

Now, in the late afternoon, they reined in their horses in what would have been in the center of the small village. But, there was no village, only the skeletons of burned buildings overgrown with shrubbery and grasses. It was quiet except for the sounds of birds and the hum of insects. She looked around, puzzled.

‘What happened here?’ she asked him as he drew up behind her. He sat for a moment, looking towards the woods. He was slow to dismount.

‘Everyone left,’ he replied vaguely.

‘This was your home wasn’t it?’ she looked at him, puzzled by his disinterest and impassive expression. He nodded but said nothing.

‘What is it Lucien?’ She could sense his discomfort and stepped towards him, taking his arm and looking up into his face. She frowned trying to decipher the look in his eyes.

‘I never knew your life in the village,’ she faltered as his face darkened further. ‘What happened here?’

He forced himself to look to her. She may as well know it all. He had vowed to himself to never lie to her. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, leading her to the shade of one of few remaining trees. He spread his coat and sat next to her. He was silent, one knee bent, his arm resting on it, pulling at the grass absently. He looked up at her, studying her face absently as though considering other thoughts and trying to form a decision.

‘What is it?’ she asked again, not understanding his hesitancy and worry starting to fill her eyes.

‘I fear it’s a difficult story and you may not want to know it,’ he said lamely. He was filled with uncertainty. He wanted to be truthful with her – there was no other way for them to go forward. But his truth was not pleasant.

‘I do want to know it,’ she said firmly. ‘The truth – I’m not afraid Lucien. I’m not a child.’ He smiled – she was so young, he thought. How could she be prepared for what he was about to tell her.

‘You will be the only person who knows the whole story,’ he said lightly, tapping her nose.

‘I can keep your secrets,’ she assured blue eyes intent on his. ‘If that is what you wish. Do you trust me?’ she asked him.

‘With everything,’ he answered immediately, touching her cheek and returning her gaze, eyes gentle, but serious.

He took a deep breath, ‘I was born here…..’

An hour later, he stopped and glanced at her. She had asked several questions and had not taken her eyes from him as he recounted the story of his life in the village. She had already known of his hunger, lack of shoes or coats. These were things she had helped provide to him. But the rest - he left nothing out – his mother, blue caped soldiers, the assault in the stable, his rescuer, and how he came to Paris. Tears had formed in her eyes. He saw her tears and stood up abruptly, unexpectedly flooded with old and familiar waves of shame. He turned away roughly from her feeling resentful and angry – he didn’t want her pity.

‘Lucien,’ she rose also, stepping around to face him. ‘Please, I didn’t know. How could I – we were so young.’

‘I don’t need your pity now,’ he growled, turning his back to her.

‘Pity? What is pity but compassion for suffering?’ she cried. ‘I feel…,’ she groped for the right words, ‘…sad and so sorry to know what happened to you. What else could I feel?’ she implored. She reached to touch his stiffened back and tried to turn him, but he twisted away from her.

‘Stop this,’ she said irritated at his refusal to look at her. ‘You said you trusted me! Now look at me!’ she demanded, moving around him again to grasp his arms and shake him.

‘It cannot have been easy for you to tell me these things and it cannot be wrong for me to feel distressed and unhappy at what you endured – at what your mother endured. What else should I feel?’

She was holding his arms, anxiously looking up into his face, tears on her cheeks but he couldn’t speak. He swallowed hard - he hadn’t thought this would be so difficult. Humiliation was coursing through him and he couldn’t look at her.

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘look at me. I’m here – please look at me.’ Her voice was breaking with sobs at his unbending stance, arms crossed over his chest, face severe and unreadable. She had never seen him so hard, unreachable and unyielding.

‘Lucien, look at me,’ she pleaded, resting her forehead against his shoulder, ‘please look at me.’ She reached up to put her arms around his neck, tears dampening his cheek. And without thinking his arms went around her and he was crushing her to him, his tears mingling with hers.

‘Lucien,’ she whispered, her fingers stroking his hair, her body pressed to his. He was suddenly aware of the feel of her against him, the rapid beat of her heart, her breath warm on his neck and the heat of her slender body between his arms. He reached up to pull her arms from around his neck and looked down into her face, her mouth and full lips so close to his and without thought he leaned down to brush his mouth against hers, using his tongue to part her lips, molding her mouth to his, sliding his tongue across her lips. She gasped softly, stiffening in his arms, her eyes widening in shock as sudden and unfamiliar sensations uncoiled deep within her.

He pulled back and looked at the tears, confusion, and desire that filled her beautiful eyes and face. She was trembling, her eyes darting everywhere but at him.

He knew that look in a woman’s eyes – when their minds advised caution, but their bodies were desperate with desire. He knew how to help resolve that conflict – his body close to hers, his voice soft and teasing, hands idly stroking her arm or back, eyes darkened with passion. He could overcome her defenses even before she knew she needed defenses. He had led many women to his bed who might have thought they ought not to go there. Is this what he was going to do with her? He dropped his hands.

‘Well that’s what you get when you trust a pirate,’ he said wryly, struggling to gain control over the naked lust that was raging through him. He smiled soothingly to neutralize the moment between them.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said picking up his coat and placing it around her trembling shoulders. ‘We should get back before it gets dark.’ He took command of their situation and led her back to their horses. He didn’t wait for her to mount, he lifted her into the saddle, handing her the reins and turned to mount his horse. She had not said a word. He led them out of the village.

At the house he stopped them in front of the door. The maid had seen them arrive and was coming down the front steps. He lifted Sophia from the saddle and turned to the maid. ‘Your mistress is chilled. Take her to her room and put more wood on the fire. She will take supper in her room. It’s been a long day and she should not be disturbed tonight.’ The young woman nodded at his instructions and led Sophia up the stairs. She followed the maid quietly, turning back once to look at him.

He led the horses to the stables and handed the reins to the groom and stable boy. He stopped in the kitchen to tell the housekeeper to take hot water to her mistress’ room and a brandy. Having done what he could think of to put distance and time between them, he went into the drawing room. He added wood to the fire, poured brandy and took off his boots stretching his legs out before him. He raked his hand through his hair. He hadn’t intended for it to happen between them. He knew how much he wanted her - but was it only because she was beautiful and desirable? It was much more than that. He didn’t want to seduce her – she must want him too. He wanted her to love him.

He stood up abruptly. It was still light enough to go for another swim. He chuckled to himself as he strode from the room heading for the stables. Cold water was just what he needed.

It was dark when he returned from the lake. The water had been ice cold and he swam several lengths of the lake, until he was barely able to drag himself onto the rock shelf. Years ago, he had sat here with Gatien, exhausted from their sparing exercises, struggling to stay awake long enough to eat the roasted meat Gatien cooked for them. He lay back on the cool rock looking up at the stars. He had vowed to find the man responsible for Gatien’s death – and kill him. As he grew older he realized the futility of that vow. Gatien had been a soldier and had been sent on a mission. It was unlikely that he would ever know the one man who had been responsible for his death. He had died as a soldier – in a place called Savoy.

He walked up the stairs to his room carrying a lamp. He paused by her door, listening. It was quiet, she was asleep. He went to his room, opening the door quietly, entering the dark room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He started to step forward and came to a sudden stop.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the dressing gown wrapped around her. Her hair was cascading down around her shoulders and back and she was barefoot. Her face was tear streaked, eyes red rimmed from crying. Alarmed, he walked quickly to her, placing the lamp on the table.

‘What is it?’ He asked anxiously, sitting next to her and turning her to him. ‘What’s happened?’

She raised her tear stained face to him, breath rasping and whispered, ‘I heard you ride away on your horse. I thought you had left.’ Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. His abandoned any thought of not touching her and pulled her into his lap, holding her to him as hard as he dared.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to her nose. ‘Blow,’ he commanded. She complied and looked at him through wet eyelashes. ‘I thought it was because of what happened between us, or what didn’t happen.’

‘That was entirely my fault,’ he told her. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you.’ She looked down, suddenly bashful.

‘I’ve never been with a man,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ve never been kissed – like that,’ she added. A fact he already knew as well as what his responsibility would be should anything further develop between them.

‘I understand. I don’t want you to worry. Nothing is going to happen between us that you do not want.’

‘And if I do want it?’ a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him from under hooded eyes.

‘Well, that would be different,’ he said slowly, aware of the sudden quickening he felt deep in his body. Just her willingness to have him touch her ignited a fire in him that he struggled to control. ‘But nothing is going to happen tonight,’ he said decisively. She looked questioning at him.

‘Your feet are like ice and nothing is less desirable than a woman with cold feet,’ he told her firmly. She giggled and frowned in confusion as he stood up with her still in his arms and placed her on the bed.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered.

He went to her room and gathered up the pillows and blankets, returning to his room. He pulled back the covers and she scrambled underneath. He pulled the covers over her and stacked the pillows against the headboard. He lay down next to her, his back against the pillow pile on top of the covers. He pulled her blankets over him and raised his arm, so she could lay her head against his chest.

‘Go to sleep Rabbit,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She snuggled close to him, draping her arm across his chest as though to hold him close to her. ‘Lucien,’ she murmured sleepily, exhausted from tears, worry and confusion for what she felt for the man who held her.

I’ll never leave you,’ he whispered to her, stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead. It wasn’t long before he felt the steady rhythm of her breathing, her lashes tickling his skin, her hand resting on his chest.

He stroked her hair absently reviewing the day’s events. He had spent the time un-spooling his life - who he had been and who he was now. He had few illusions about himself – the bastard son of a whore, raised in abject circumstances, who walked a thin line between honest work and brutal criminality, reaping great wealth from his King’s sanctioned violence. Yet, he had been loved – by a nun, a soldier and a child of the aristocracy. With unerring instinct, he knew her love would heal the wounds of his past and direct his future.

He lay in the dark - holding her to him – knowing that someday he would look back and know that this was the moment that marked his life changing forever. He could not foresee all that would happen, but she was as integral to him as the breath that filled his body. And, like the air around him, he would never be able to live without her.


	16. ...the fault in our stars....

He woke suddenly, sitting up and looking quickly around the room. It was empty except for him. He fell back against the pillows and wondered how she had managed to get out of bed and leave the room without awakening him. He didn’t think that was possible.

The door was flung open and she breezed into the room, fully dressed and energetic, ‘get up sleepy head,’ she said gaily, smacking him with her gloves. ‘We are going for a ride.’

‘Where?’ he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed still covered with blankets. The room was chilly, and he shivered in the cold air.  
‘The stewards will be here soon. I want to visit as many of the tenant farms as possible,’ she answered. ‘Come with me.’ She was looking at him expectantly not sure he would agree. But he was interested. She had managed to convince several magistrates and the Dutch and Swiss bankers to allow her to manage her own property and finances. He was curious as to how she would fare.

‘Get out of here and let me get dressed,’ he told her. ‘I’m hungry – did you eat everything at breakfast?’ She turned to leave the room, ‘not everything,’ she called back to him.

Now he stood in the yard, munching another roll and listening to her question the stewards. The estate books would be reviewed later. Today, she wanted to visit her tenants and see the conditions of their farms. She wanted to know what repairs might be needed to their homes or barns, tools that might be required to improve their farming, the yield of their crops. She knew little about farming, but she was intelligent and had organized her questions in a manner to build her knowledge. He smiled to himself as he listened to their conversation. She was eager, excited at her first review of the degree of responsibility she was assuming. 

The ride through the estate was pleasant, the tenants surprised to have their lady visit them. They were probably more surprised to understand that she was planning to run the estate and was taking an interest in her tenants. She sat in small kitchens talking to women about their looms, spinners, butter churns, candle works, and how to make the best ale or brandy. She climbed up ladders to inspect roofs, looked through barns, listened to farmers catalogue their farm animals and talked with men and women about the wares they made and sold in local markets to supplement their meager incomes. She sat in the yards listening to her farmers and watching the way the estate stewards talked to the tenants. She asked many questions and shook hands with everyone she met.

It was late in the afternoon when they returned to the manor. She went into the study with the stewards to write out her instructions to them, including what she expected to see in their monthly reports. The men left, tipping their hats to her.

He waited for her in the drawing room, adding wood to the fire to drive the evening chill from the room. He asked the housekeeper to bring dinner to a small table in the drawing room, a request she clearly did not think proper. The dining room seemed cavernous for just the two of them, not to mention cold. And neither one of them had brought evening clothes for dining. He wondered how many rules of the aristocracy governing the eating of food he was violating – it was yet another reminder of the divide between them. The trip through the estate also reminded him that he and his mother had not even had the distinction of being tenants on her family’s estate. She may have spent most of her life in another country, but she was assuming her birthright with equanimity and ease. She was born to the position she was settling into. He was wealthy, but that would never qualify him to belong to her class.

He rose when she came into the room, bathed and dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, her hair damp, and held back with a clasp. Her face was flushed from the heat of the water and the day’s exercise. He handed her a glass of wine.

‘Oh, what a good idea,’ she said, nodding toward the table covered with a cloth and set for two. ‘I’m starving,’ she said emphatically, smiling at him, the housekeeper appeared to announce dinner was ready, hesitating in the doorway, wondering if her mistress would override his instructions. Instead, her mistress rose and walked to the small table where he held the chair for her.

‘Thank you, Brigid,’ Sophia said and watched him while he sat opposite her. He didn’t wait for the footmen, picking up the flask of wine and pouring it.

‘You are very quiet,’ she said to him. They had finished dinner and were sitting on the sofa. She was curled up next to him, his arm around her shoulder, legs stretched out towards the fire. He turned to look into her blue eyes, questioning and serious. ‘What is it?’

He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘I enjoyed watching you today. You are more than capable of managing your holdings,’ he said.  
‘I have a great deal to learn,’ she said, shaking her head at her ignorance. ‘I shall rely on the stewards - I think are good men.’ She looked at him ‘what did you think of them?’

He was surprised. He had not expected to be consulted, but he could see that her question was meant seriously. ‘They seemed competent,’ he said. ‘I did not see any problem between them and the tenants.’ She nodded in agreement, ‘neither did I.’

She lay her head against his shoulder and was quiet. ‘Lucien,’ she said softly. He inclined his head towards her and tilted her chin up, leaning down to kiss her, cupping her face in his hand. She sighed into him, her lips parting, and he deepened his kiss, his tongue teasing her lips until she drew his tongue into her mouth, slipping her hand under his shirt and trailing her fingers across his chest. His muscles jumped reflexively to her touch, desire roaring through him and he gently pushed her back against the sofa. He withdrew slightly to nuzzle her neck, stroke her hair, looking into her smoldering blue eyes, feeling her breathing rise and fall with increasing intensity as her hair flowed through his fingers like silk. He could smell the scented soap she used, her alabaster skin warm and soft under his fingers, and he traced a line with his lips from her mouth to her neck and down to the soft skin above her bodice, his fingers skillfully untying the laces and slipping his hand inside to cup the soft flesh and drag his thumb across her nipple, sensitive and aroused. She moaned, arching her back into his hand and he thought he would go mad with his need for her. He moved her down to lie on the sofa and stretched out beside her kissing her hard and drawing her tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his own. He moved his hand along the curve of her hip, dragging her skirt up, sliding his fingers along the smooth skin of her thigh, his fingers gliding upward. She gasped and jerked suddenly from him. He stilled his fingers and then forced himself to remove his hand, resting his forehead against hers, trying to slow his breathing. He pulled them upright, holding her against him, kissing her lightly. He wouldn’t push her farther. He sat up and stood to put wood on the fire. He needed to move away from her if he was not going to pull her to the carpet and take her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, adjusting her skirt and retying the laces of her bodice. He didn’t look at her – it was too difficult to watch those slender fingers that so recently been sliding against his skin.

‘You have nothing to apologize for,’ he told her. He sighed – why were the acts of seduction and love kept secret from women? She was afraid of what she didn’t understand, and she was ignorant of what to expect. She only knew it would hurt.

‘I never had a mother or sister or aunt to explain anything to me,’ she said unhappily. She looked at him from hooded eyes, blushing furiously, ‘why don’t you explain it to me?’ He looked at her aghast.

‘You have been with hundreds of beautiful, desirable, sophisticated women,’ he raised an eyebrow at her imaginative perception of his amorous encounters, although she was not entirely incorrect. ‘Surely you can explain it to an ignorant, naïve girl,’ she persisted.

‘Yes, I can,’ he replied wryly. ‘Because of course, I absolutely have no ulterior motives with you.’

‘I trust you,’ she said, but her eyes were worried. He cupped her chin, ‘do you?’ he said softly, ‘do you think I would hurt you?’

‘No,’ she said, her blue eyes earnest, ‘I just think it will hurt.’ He nodded, ‘it might. Sometimes when women ride horses it seems to hurt less. But there will most likely be a moment of discomfort.’

‘Sophia,’ he took her his arms, holding her head against his chest, ‘when you are ready, I will do my best to minimize any pain. Beyond that, you must trust what your body wants,’ he was stroking her hair, ‘and me,’ he finished softly.

He suggested she retire to her rooms for the night. She hesitated and then left. He sat alone looking into the fireplace. He had bedded virgins before, but not because he went looking for them. He knew men whose lust became uncontrollable with virginal girls – tearing into their tender bodies as though plundering territory. He preferred women with experience – helping an inexperienced girl to understand her own body’s needs and allowing her enough time to discover her own pleasure required a great deal of patience and control. He had rarely been motivated enough. But this time, it was different - because he was in love with Sophia. He didn’t want her to be afraid and he wanted her pleasure more than he wanted his own.

He banked the fire, took the lamp and walked up the stairs. He let himself into his room, undressed and lay down on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. Beyond his body’s restless and overheated demand for her, larger problems loomed. Treville and Athos would not, under any circumstances, approve of her liaison with him, believing that through his association with the dangerous world of privateers he would endanger her. Government sanctioned or not, it was a hazardous profession, with many grasping greedy men seeking any means to leverage their quest for wealth.

But the more daunting and unsolvable problem was the social and familial chasm that separated them. She was distantly related to the King – and no one would ever consider him suitable for her. Anyone who had any control or influence over her would be relentless in their opposition to him and place every obstacle between them to thwart their relationship and destroy their love.

He sat up and dropped his head into his hands. He couldn’t think clearly, and he was suddenly afraid – and felt the first tendrils of rage rising from deep within him. He clenched his jaw - no one would keep her from him. There was a faint knock at the door and it opened slowly. He looked up.

She stood in the open doorway hesitantly holding her dressing gown to her. He stood up, walked to her, and took her by the arms, ‘what is it?’ She lifted her face to him, the iridescence in her blue eyes winking, ‘I don’t want to spend another night alone afraid of what I want with you’ she whispered. 

His face was partially shadowed from the light of the lamp so she did not clearly see his eyes - naked with his desire. He took her hands and lifted them, trailing his lips over her fingers, turning her hands and kissing her palms, his tongue tickling her skin. He pushed her dressing gown from her shoulders and it fell to the floor. He held her against him, reaching down to pull her nightdress up along her body and over her head, dropping it to the floor. He reached over her and pushed the door shut, lifted her in his arms and stepped to the bed.

>>>

He woke slowly, because he didn’t want to wake up. He felt her next to him, head on his shoulder, silky hair covering his arm and chest, her leg crooked over his. He thought of other women and how they were different and individual – their weight, curve of their hip, shape of their breast. He knew that if he were blind he would still know her – by shape and curve, taste and scent – he would always know her. He had no word to name the feeling she aroused in him – but she reached inside and smoothed over the slashed entry into a darkness of fear, anger and loneliness.

He had moved over her with tenderness and desire, using all his skill and love to arouse her sensuality and desires and bring her where she begged him for something she didn’t know. At the moment he moved inside her and felt the resistance, he gathered her to him, whispering, ‘it may hurt my darling,’ she looked up at him, her eyes dark and so full with trust and passion that he thought his heart would break from the feeling that clenched his chest and when she cried out, writhing under him, holding desperately onto him, he still restrained himself until her pleasure was fully released and only then did he abandon control and lose himself inside her.

He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, unable to do more than stroke her hair and nuzzle her neck. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked softly. She nodded, and he could feel her smile against his chest.

She lifted herself up on one elbow, and looked into his face with anxious eyes, ‘was it all right? Did I ….’ He placed his fingers on her lips to stop her, ‘you were perfect,’ he murmured and smiled at her, stroking her cheek. He sighed, ‘perhaps I could have been more patient….’ 

She stopped him, placing her fingers on his lips, ‘you were perfect,’ she whispered. They laughed together and he said to her, ‘well, my perfect lady, I advise that you close your eyes, because I am not letting you sleep for long.' She laughed and draped her arm over him. They fell asleep wrapped around each other.

He woke her twice more that night - and she met his insistent kisses and desiring hands with her own – needing to feel him and his strength against and within her, his body hard where hers was soft and taking her to insensible longing for more - not knowing what that meant - only needing him more. Now he lay awake, with her back against him, his body curved to hers, his arms wrapped around her as she slept, his arm pillowing her head. He listened to the awakening birds and watched as the room began to lighten with the dawn.


	17. Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways....(Rumi)

He felt the bed move under him and opened his eyes slowly. She was sitting with legs curled under her, holding two steaming cups, watching him, the iridescence in her blue eyes sparkling. Her mouth was curving into a smile – she was wide-awake and waiting impatiently.

She had slipped out of bed and retrieved the early morning tray from her room, now set on the table next to his bed. She held out a cup to him.

‘I thought you would never wake up,’ she said. He pushed himself to a sitting position against the pillows, wondering how, again, she had managed to wake, get out of bed, retrieve a tray, and return to the room – all without waking him. He had never slept so soundly – or carelessly.

He took the cup from her and glanced outside – the sky was dark grey, drops of rain splattered against the windows. The room was chilly, and he shivered involuntarily. She jumped up to retrieve his dressing gown, draping it around his bare shoulders and placed more wood on the fire.  


‘Thank you my lady,’ he said amused at her acts of servitude for him. He looked at her over the rim of the cup – there was high color in her cheeks and she radiated barely contained energy.

‘You look happy,’ he remarked and then narrowed his eyes at her knowingly, ‘actually you seem quite pleased with yourself,’ feeling the first stirrings of arousal at her glowing face. She grinned wickedly at him, looking reckless and desirable and he had a wild thought of throwing the cup away from him and reaching for her.

‘What now?’ she asked him. What a question he thought as his eyes roamed over her face and down to the laces of her bodice. ‘I thought we dispensed with that,’ tilting his chin, indicating the nightdress, ‘last night.’ He smiled, slanting his eyes at her lasciviously. She grinned back at him.

‘Now,’ he said responding to her question, putting the cup down carefully and reaching to take hers, ‘you come back to bed and we will eventually discuss whatever it is you are so wound up about, ’ He kept hold of her wrist and tugged gently. She uncurled herself to stretch out upon the length of him and resting her head against his chest.

‘I need to talk with you,’ she said, eyelashes flickering against his skin. His hands were already stroking her back and reaching inside her bodice, cupping the warm flesh. He stopped, groaning dramatically and lay his head back against the pillow. She laughed and tilted her head up to rest her chin on his chest, looking up at him.

His eyes shifted downward, ‘Mmmm.’ He stroked her cheek and sighed deeply. He had seen the serious shift in her eyes. She was thinking about something.

‘What is it?’ he asked her, slowly removing his hands from her soft warm flesh and placing them sedately on top of her nightdress.

‘I want you to marry me,’ she announced without preamble. He was stunned into silence. She tilted her chin up to look at him, ‘you look surprised,’ she commented wryly, blue eyes twinkling.

‘ _Marry _?’ he managed to say more calmly than her felt. He couldn’t marry her. Or rather, she couldn’t marry him.__

____

__

‘I want us to be together,’ she said firmly, prepared for his objections. Rather, prepared for him to point out the objections of others – those who controlled her life and consequently – his life too.

‘We are together,’ he said equally firmly. ‘That will never be otherwise.’

‘I don’t want to be parted from you,’ she said.

‘We will not be parted,’ he stated, pulling her to a sitting position. He couldn’t have this conversation with her lying on top of him, because in that position he would promise anything. Reason was required.

‘I will always be with you,’ he stated, his voice soft but resolute, eyes focused on hers. She traced a circle on his chest with a long slender finger, ‘I want it legally required for you to be here,’ she said tapping his chest playfully. His eyes glowed with amusement and affection at her teasing.  


He didn’t like appearing to be in opposition to her desire to be his wife. _His wife _. He had not allowed himself to think about it. He knew, under conventional rules, it was impossible.__

____

____

‘Sophie - you must request permission from the King to marry and he will never grant it to marry me.’ There was absolutely no other outcome for them. ‘You will never be allowed to marry me,’ he repeated. ‘For us to do so against his permission would be treason,’ he added. ‘At the very least, all your property would be confiscated, you would be stripped of all titles,’ he continued. ‘All of what I have would be taken as well.’

She dropped her eyes and pursed her lips. ‘I know that is serious,’ she started to explain exactly why she didn’t think it was too serious. No, he thought, she must be made to understand.

‘Serious,’ he said soberly, ‘as in execution as punishment.’

‘You think I would be executed,’ she asked surprised and disbelieving.

‘Not you - me,’ he said, ’you would either be confined to a nunnery or locked in the Bastille - for perhaps the rest of your life. It’s unlikely anyone will risk the King’s anger by helping you. ’ She stared at him, clearly startled at his plain speech. He looked at her without smiling.

He said softly, ‘why are you concerned that we will not be together or can be parted

‘I worry I can be forced to marry,’ she said, anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘The King has that authority and uses his unwed family members for political alliances. I am a very distant relative, but could he use me in this way?’

‘I hope the King would consider the wishes of a lady – however distantly related,’ he replied neutrally. The threat was real - she was young, beautiful, and wealthy. The King could find many political uses for her. He felt a flash of anger - she would not be with anyone but him – ever. But this was not the time to discuss what he was prepared to do.

‘There would be time to consider options,’ he said deliberately vague. There was no sense in getting too detailed about something that had not yet occurred. Of course refusing the King’s order to marry would also be considered treason.

‘Nobles marry those of lesser rank all the time,’ she persisted, not willing to give up.

‘I am not of lesser rank, ‘he replied. ‘I am of no rank and you know my family or lack of family. It will not be tolerated or permitted.’

She was frowning and pulling away from him as though he were the one denying her what she wanted. How could she not understand this he wondered? Why was she being stubborn? It worried him – she could not pursue this outside of a discussion with him. It could be dangerous to both of them.

‘Why is it so important to you?’ he asked softly, not letting go of her. He pulled gently at her arm and she let him draw her to him, wrapping his arms around her, resting his cheek against her hair. She was quiet, perhaps trying to find the real reason beyond the ones that, in her world, dictate marriage.

‘Is it not important to you?’ she asked.

‘I just found you Sophie, ‘he countered, ‘Can we not simply enjoy that for the while? If necessary, I am content with it.’

‘I want to belong to you,’ she whispered, her lips pressing into his chest. He groaned and tilted her head back kissing her deeply. ‘You do belong to me,’ he breathed into her.

‘What if we have a child?’ she asked, raising her brows at the question. ‘I may be inexperienced at love, but I know the consequences.’ He was silent. He had not thought of a child or what that might mean to either of them. He didn’t want a child to be born a bastard, but what else could a child of their union be?

He shrugged, ‘I do not have all the answers this morning,’ signaling his displeasure at having to resolve all the problems confronting them on the third morning they were together.

‘Could we wait until next week?’ he teased hoping to mollify her. In business and other aspects of his life, he considered it mandatory to think ahead and consider alternative plans– it had kept him alive and made him and his captains rich. But in this instance, he was stymied. He wanted a life with her and had given fleeting thought to most of the issues she had brought up – but there were many obstacles and all the solutions seemed to lead to the same conclusion: leave the country or the continent, and give up titles and considerable wealth. He had lands and wealth outside France and Europe, but she would give up everything.

‘We could marry in secret,’ she suggested still unwilling to surrender her dream.

‘Without or against the King’s permission?’ he asked doubtfully, ‘aside from the unpleasantness of my head being separated from my shoulders….’ She frowned severely at him, but he wasn’t sure if her irritation was about his execution or his joking about his execution - ‘a secret makes us vulnerable to others who might discover it and use it against us. Or, more likely, use it against those who care about you.’

‘Rochfort,’ she said coldly. She did not like the King’s minister and had distrusted him at first sight. She knew he was curious and had agents watching her. She agreed with Lucien about the man - he would use any weapon available to strike at his enemies, which included Treville, Athos and the Musketeers. She knew Lucien had no allegiance to the Musketeers. But, despite her conflicts with Athos, she was loyal to them and worried about their fate.

She rose and walked to the fireplace, staring down into the flames. ‘We can always come here,’ she said, but it was more a question. She didn’t know if he could be away from Paris or what else his life required. She actually knew very little about the mechanics of his business or his life. Who were his friends? Could they walk together in the park?

‘Yes,’ he answered slowly, registering the subtle change in her. ‘But I cannot run an international criminal enterprise from a noble estate in the countryside,’ he joked, referring to an embellished description of him thrown at her during an argument with Athos about his suitability for her.

‘Sophia,’ he started, running a hand through his hair, hesitating at what he needed to say, or ask of her. ‘Are you sure this is what you want? A life with me is not what you may have expected for yourself – my wealth does not mean that I live an aristocrat’s life. I cannot and would not accompany you to dress balls at the palace or dinners with the Duchess. I do not go hunting with Beaufort and his falcons. My associates are men from the sea, the river, the waterfront. It’s rough in patches and to ensure your safety, I would require you to understand that I will keep some parts of that world separate from you.’

‘Are you saying you live outside the law?’ she asked, listening carefully to him. ‘I thought it allowed under the King’s license.’

‘I would describe it as walking a fine line between legal and illegal,’ he answered. ‘But licensed stealing is still stealing – it can be violent.’ She frowned at this – was he in constant danger? He saw her sudden concern for him, but did not try to assuage any fears she may now realize. He couldn’t ask her to be with him without her knowing the realities of his life. Or, as much as she was willing to accept.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully and asked, 'is the wearing of corsets mandatory?' her blue eyes winking in amusement. 

He laughed, relieved at her playfulness. 'Negotiable,' he replied, matching her humor. 

They were silent looking at each other considering their situation and their future. Many unknowns, but one known to which they could both agree, ‘we will not be parted,’ Sophia asserted firmly. Her gaze was steady, blue eyes unwavering on his.

He knew she was asking him to swear to her that nothing would come between them and that this vow would dictate choices, resolutions and actions. He nodded and held out his hand to her and she crossed the room to nestle next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He could feel the steady beat of the strength and determination that flowed through her slender body. She was more a wild thing than the obedient daughter of the aristocracy – ready to fling away the expectations of her class. She belonged to him and him alone.

‘Are you planning to stay naked in bed all day?’ she asked with mock severity, eyes running suggestively over his naked torso, glimpsed though his opened dressing gown. He stretched his long body, arching his back and placing his hands behind his head, leaned back against the pillows, golden glints from his slanted eyes. He glanced toward the window, streaked with rain and the darkened sky beyond.

‘It’s raining,’ he remarked lazily letting his gaze drift over her. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Chess? Cards?’ she suggested with feigned innocence, glancing towards the game table set in front of the fireplace. ‘I cheat quite well at cards,’ she said laughing. ‘Porthos was an excellent teacher – and a very bad loser!’ Lucien laughed with her.

‘I have a different game in mind,’ he smiled suggestively, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her down to the bed, leveraging his long body over hers, nuzzling her neck.

‘What game is this?’ she giggled as his stubbled cheek tickled her skin. His mouth trailed down her neck and across her shoulder, sliding down across her chest and he tugged at the laces of her bodice with his teeth. He looked up at her from under hooded eyes, letting his tongue lightly brush her skin.

‘I’ll teach you,’ he whispered and lowered his head.


	18. "As reason is a rebel to faith, so passion is a rebel to reason....'(Thomas Browne)

She was starting to pace, eyes darting around the room, scowling as she listened. Treville watched her and cursed himself for his temper. He had misjudged the situation. He did not want a confrontation with her – but now, he had little choice. He would do everything in his power to prevent her from making this mistake.

Sophia turned, staring at the three people in the room, from one to the other. ‘What _proof_ do you have of any of this?’ she asked tautly. She was squeezing her hands together, shoulders tensed, and, blue eyes dark with anger.

‘Sophia,’ admonished the Duchess, ‘the Captain wouldn’t lie to you.’

‘I didn’t say he _lied_ ,’ she replied tersely, ‘I said - what _proof_ is there,’ she corrected. She didn’t look at the Duchess – only at Treville.

The noble lady started to speak again, and Treville interrupted, ‘It is fine. She has a right to ask.’ He laid a folder on the table and opened it. ‘It’s in here.’ 

She curled her lip in disgust and deigned not to touch the unwelcome folder and its contents. Her eyes scanned the documents. She snorted derisively, and flipped the folder closed, shoving it away dismissively.

‘Beaufort? DeVilliers? Mondrard? You expect me to take their word?’ she said disdainfully.

‘I don’t believe anything they say about _you_! Why would I take their word against Lucien? A criminal mastermind? These charges of….,’ she couldn’t repeat what she had read. The cruelty and viciousness attributed to him. It wasn’t true.

Athos tried to interject, ‘we have other….,’ but she rounded on him furious that he was party to this attack.

‘How could _you_ know anything!’ she bared her teeth at him, ‘your wife bedding the King and your head stuck in a wine barrel for weeks,’ she retaliated scornfully, her shoulders shaking with anger, daring him to deny her accusations. Athos stiffened in surprise, not expecting her to turn on him.

‘I will remind you, that your father signed a contract that would have entrusted you to _me_ ,’ Athos said stiffly, gritting his teeth and barely control his temper. ‘I have a duty to honor your father’s intentions,’ the menace in his voice was clear, ‘the magistrates took that into account…’

He got no farther because she was stalking toward him, her face a mask of fury, snarling, ‘My father would never intend for a man like you…’

‘Sophia,’ admonished the Duchess, sternly enough to check the young woman, but she did not stop glaring at Athos.

'I know you are fond of Lucien – he’s a childhood friend. But he is not appropriate for someone of your rank. You must see that yourself,’ the gracious lady implored the young woman -who narrowed her eyes warningly and tightened her mouth. She barely restrained herself from launching a tirade at the woman she loved like a sister. 

‘His profession is dangerous and there are many accusations of illegal activity,’ Treville said firmly. ‘For God’s sake Sophia! He owns brothels!

She was wide-eyed and incredulous, ‘ _Brothels_! ‘she cried. ‘And who _uses_ brothels and whores? Musketeers? Soldiers? Ministers? The Queen, down the hall from the King and his wh...’ she glanced at Athos angrily and stopped.

‘Both of you,’ she accused, pointing at him and Athos, ‘work for the biggest criminal in Europe. Starving his own people! forcing them to choose which child to feed to pay his taxes! waging war where men die in the thousands because there are no weapons or medical treatment or even enough food! he’s profiteering from slaves!’ her voice was rising. ‘He legitimizes thieving and murder - that which you accuse Lucien - for his own extravagance! How dare you talk of _criminals_ to me!

 _‘Stop_!’ he roared at her recklessness, ‘that is treason!’ If she spoke so wildly in the wrong place there would be nothing he could do to stop Rochfort from executing her on the spot.

‘Then when you hang Lucien you can hang me too!’ she shouted back at him.

‘Please,’ the Duchess attempted to intervene, ‘we are trying to help you my dear. We are trying to convey to you the truth!’

‘The truth?” the enraged young woman looked at her in disbelief. ‘The only person who has been ever truthful to me is Lucien,’ she cried.

‘You,’ she jabbed a finger at Treville, ‘all your secrets – I’m sick of it! _Why did you drag me to this miserable country?’_

She whirled to face Athos, snarling ‘If my father had known the man you would become…,’

‘Sophia! Stop!’ cried the distraught Duchess, rising from her chair with tears in her eyes. ‘You must stop – this is too much.’ 

Flushed with rage and defiance, her fists clenched, she stood in front of them, angry tears in her darkened eyes, ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ she managed to say without shouting, turned and strode from the room. 

She ran through the kitchen door and into the yard, shouting for the stable boy to bring her horse. She vaulted into the saddle, riding quickly from the grounds. She knew where she was going. He would not like it, but it couldn’t be helped. The streets were crowded, forcing her to ride slowly through the neighborhoods and as she approached the river and the waterfront streets, the streets became more clogged with people, wagons and carriages. She dismounted and led her horse to the street paralleling the river and fronting the docks that appeared at intervals as the river flowed past the city.

A man, sitting on a barrel outside a darkened window store, frowned at her. She ignored him and walked on. Men jostled her as they pushed past her, carrying all manner of boxes and crates, or heavy bags balanced on their shoulders. Carriages and wagons loaded with cargo going to and from the docks, were moving slowly, the drivers shouting at her to move aside. Men stared at her curiously and insolently – their eyes running up and down her body, turning to watch her as she passed by, offering their erotic suggestions for her pleasure. She ignored them and walked on. The man on the barrel stood up and trotted down the street to the last building and went inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

The man he was looking for was sitting at a table in the far corner, facing the door, shuffling cards and playing a game of solitaire. He listened to the man whisper to him, scowled, stood up, shoved back his chair and strode from the room into the street. He scanned the street, sighted her and walked purposefully to her.

‘My lady,’ he said courteously and took her arm, firmly. ‘Please come with me.’ He started to lead her in the direction from which he had come. ‘I’m looking for….’ she started, offering some resistance to his firm grip. She frowned at him - not sure she should go with him. ‘I know who you are looking for,’ he interrupted quietly and said again, ‘please come with me.’

He led her up a flight of stairs on the outside of the last building and rapped on the door, but didn’t wait for an answer, opening it and letting her pass by him.

Lucien looked up and stood immediately to walk around his desk, looking at Sophia with a puzzled expression. He frowned at the man, who shrugged. He didn’t know why she was here. The man left closing the door softly.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, taking in her disheveled and agitated appearance and sitting her down on the sofa. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her.

He watched her look curiously around the room. She had never been to his offices. It was a large room occupying the entire top floor of the building. Overloaded bookcases lined one wall, the big desk, and two chairs opposite set in front of the large window overlooking the street below. A long rectangular table with chairs was set in the center of the room. The remaining walls were covered with maps and charts. There were other smaller desks against the far walls, where clerks and accountants came to work and a locked reinforced door. This door was open, and there were several large heavy iron safes. There were two doors set in the opposite wall.

She looked at him, tears forming in her eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his dark eyes concerned.

‘They told me you are the worst criminal in Paris - or all of France - or all of Europe,’ she blurted, her voice rising in emotion and anger, stumbling over her own words.

‘All of France and Europe?’ he asked - his eyes widening in mock surprise,” ‘quite an achievement of mine. But I think that honor must go to the King, or perhaps the Pope,' he joked in an attempt to disarm her anxiety. But it had the opposite effect.

She frowned at him – she expected him to take the accusations seriously. Nothing would be funny to her now. Whomever she had talked too had made her angry – but had also managed to instill doubts.

'That’s what I told them,’ she said hotly. Now he laughed, he could imagine her impassioned retort on the King’s behavior.

'Oh,’ he raised his brow in surprise, ‘is that what I am?’ he looked more amused than horrified at her villainous depiction of him.

‘Who are you talking about?’ he asked quietly. He leaned back against the sofa, his arm stretched out along the back, fingers trailing over her back and shoulder.

‘Treville, Athos, the Duchess,’ she replied, staring down at the glass in her hand. How could they have done that – all together – they had ambushed her. ‘They had a file with statements from Beaufort, deVillers, others. I didn’t read all the details.’

'They accuse you of murder ….and…other things,’ she faltered, not looking at him. She was horrified that she was telling him - it felt like betrayal.

He studied her profile, wondering what information they had about him, but not really caring. His work was too profitable to the crown, and to certain ministers who received special payouts, for him to be threatened by Musketeers. He only cared what she believed about him. So he didn’t ask her if she accepted their reports. Instead he said softly, ‘what do you want to know?’ lifting his hand to stroke her cheek and smooth her disheveled hair from her forehead. They looked at each other for a long moment and then she was curling into him, laying her cheek against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and she closed her eyes, her tense body softening into his hard strength and the steady beat of his heart.

He waited a few minutes and then, again ‘what do you want to know Sophie?’

I know what you do,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

He smiled again, ‘well, I get in a boat and row until I find the King’s enemies, who are trying to row away from me and when I catch up to them I ask them, politely, to hand over their cargo,’ he said teasingly.

‘Not so politely I think,’ she remonstrated, shaking her head at him. He shrugged, ‘No reason they should hand it over politely – after all, we don’t’ – she frowned at him - ‘when we are asked, that is,’ he said wryly.

‘I think I am supposed to be shocked and disapprove – but – the King authorizes it – and I know it’s unacceptable for me to be associated with it, but…’ confusion clouded her beautiful eyes.

He touched her cheek, ‘maybe because you do not see me as a violent criminal, but as someone you care about? ’ he suggested. ‘More than care about,’ she said firmly. He smiled at her and rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

'Of course, I don’t see you as a violent man way, any more than I see Treville or the Musketeers as violent men.’

‘And you do not see their actions as criminal?’ he continued, watching her carefully.

‘She shrugged, ‘they follow the King’s orders.’ He did not reply. She sighed, ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she confessed, her thoughts more muddled than when the conversation started.

‘I did not mean to confuse you and I’m not trying to make my business appear different than what it is.’

'I cannot bear to think of you hurting people,’ she whispered leaning away from him and looking into his eyes.

He thought for a moment and then said, ‘I don’t use violence unless it is needed. However, whoever deals in the business of privateers or with me should not be surprised by it. It is a dangerous business – even when Kings or Emperors want it done for their purposes. Men can be greedy and can try to interfere for their own purposes.’

He looked down at her, ‘the King employs many people to advance his plans – soldiers, spies, assassins, even Musketeers – including privateers and on occasion – pirates. It can be lucrative – and he needs money. How it is obtained is not his worry – actually – that’s my worry. That’s why he uses me and my captains.’

She laughed, ‘so you are in service to the King,’ she joked, ‘you should have a seat at his council table – you might be the only one making sense.' She stopped laughing, her eyes clouding, ‘it is dangerous for you isn’t it? Treville thinks that danger can come to me also.’

He shook his head firmly, ‘I would never let that happen. That is why I keep you away from that part of my life – including my offices,’ he said lightly, kissing her forehead. They were quiet for a moment. There were rough men in his world, but he didn’t believe there was any real danger to her. Of far greater risk was the rapidly deteriorating condition of the King, paranoid and isolated by Rochfort whose power was growing rapidly and with potentially deadly consequences. The King could force her to marry for political advantage – or Rochfort could talk the King into using her for that purpose. There were new reports from his palace spies that Treville wanted her to move out of the palace. The Duchess had offered her home, but Sophia preferred living in her family house, run down as it was – because that is where they could be together. So far, it was a stalemate.

‘And prostitutes? do you…’ she couldn’t ask the question - what she really wanted to know.

‘If a woman sells herself or works for a madam, she can do it in a house, not a back alley. Men, who work for me, protect her from being beaten to death by drunken customers. I own the house and she pays me or the madam she works for pays me. I suppose that’s criminal because the King didn’t think of it first,' he laughed.

‘Do you….use their…,’ she hesitated, not wanting to know about women with whom he had been intimate. She didn’t want to think of him doing to other women what he did to her or might have loved.

He took her face in his hands, ‘I haven’t been a _monk_ Sophie. Was that in Treville’s file? My _sex_ life is criminal?’ He didn’t remind her of the blue-caped men who routinely came to his village to the small huts at its edge. His mother had lived in one of those huts.

She pulled away, angry and ashamed at being jealous. She hated that she was suspicious of him and perversely, furious that he had not tried to deceive her. If he had lied to her about his life, she could just be ignorant and ignore what she didn’t want to know.

He let her go. She stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t think I want to know anymore.’ She walked to the door, hesitating and then went through it. He didn’t try to stop her. He followed her and watched as she descended the stairs and approached the boy holding her horse’s reins.

She reached for the stirrup to mount her horse and ride away. Turn and look at me he thought. She stopped and leaned her head against the saddle.

She turned. He ran down the steps and crossed the space between them, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Lucien,’ she whispered. He led her back inside, closing the door behind them.

She was asleep, curled against him, her arm thrown across his chest. He felt her steady breath tickling his skin and he moved his head to let his lips brush her forehead and his fingers absently stroked her cheek. She did not move. He stared out the window into the dark night. Sounds of water slapping against the pier supports and muted sounds from the tavern and the street drifted upwards, reminding him that the waterfront never slept. He missed the ports of Marseille, Rouen and Le Havre – ships coming and going, the energetic bustle of the wharf, the lure of exotic and unknown places.

He had begun to think of changing his way of life; he had more than enough money to spend over several lifetimes. He owned a plantation in the West Indies, worked by freed men. They could start a new life – together. Would she consider it? Could anyone stop her? His mouth tightened, his eyes cold - if proof was needed as to how dangerous and violent he was – he would accommodate.

He tightened his arms slightly around her, looking down at her long lashes shadowing the faint blush that stained her cheeks, her lips parted in her sleep. He felt a stirring deep within him and shifted her gently to the bed, leaning over her, lips brushing hers. Sleepily she opened her eyes – ‘don’t wake up,’ he whispered as he covered her mouth with his.


	19. Aftermath

Athos waited for her, sitting at a back table where he would see her enter. He had little doubt that she would come. She did not run from difficult conversations with him – it had been the three of them accosting her. That had been a mistake.

It had started with Treville asking – no accusing – her of seeing Grimaud – without informing anyone. She had not answered, but Athos had seen the gleam in her blue eyes and the smile she tried to hide. The smile a woman has when she is sharing secrets or other intimacy with a man. How had this happened he thought? How had they not known? How far had it gone? He seethed and clenched his hands.

The air was thick with unspoken remonstrations, the silence deafening, ‘where did you meet him?’ he finally asked.

She had looked at Athos in surprise, as though she had forgotten he, or perhaps all of them, were still there. She leaned against the window frame, absently drawing a shape on the window pane with her finger. She dragged her eyes back to him and said, ‘at the estate.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ asked the Duchess. ‘Why did you hide your knowledge of him?’

‘Because none of you wanted me to pursue looking for him. You have been nothing but discouraging,’ she accused, looking at each of them with sullen eyes.

‘You have met him since,’ Athos said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t have to look at him to understand his meaning, - go ahead, he was saying to her – lie to me. For a moment, she felt a twinge of sorrow at what was occurring between them, but she would not lie to him.

She half turned her head towards him and shrugged. ‘You have been away,’ she said vaguely.

He – all of them - had misjudged her need to find the boy from her youth. They had discouraged her, and she had ceased to talk about him, but she had not stopped looking for him. She had persisted – quietly and independently – and she had found him. In an instant, he understood there would be no argument or evidence sufficient to persuade her to stop her association with Grimaud. She would have to make the decision herself and for her own reasons.

He could still see her, flushed and trembling with anger at their accusations against Grimaud. Rage, when released, rose like a feral thing within her. Athos knew that kind of rage – it could keep a soldier- or a woman - alive. She had survived threats and assaults that should have killed her. He had no doubt that she had felt, facing their condemnation, that she was fighting for her life.

But, he had been surprised at how she turned on him and the harshness of her words. Well, he thought, it wasn’t as though none of it was true. During the time his wife moved freely around the palace, he had retreated to the tavern and barely raised his head or his eyes to look at anyone. Now, he didn’t know where she was. Perhaps she was back in the King's service. 

Sophia entered, spotted him and hesitated. He stood up and she threaded her way through the tables. He poured wine, pushing the glass to her. She had not yet looked at him. He could see the imperceptible tremble of her lips, her hurried breathing, and eyes roaming around the room at everything except at him. She finally looked at the glass of wine he had set in front of her.

‘How did you know I would come?’ she asked, ready to defend herself. He sighed, wishing she did not feel the need to protect herself from him.  


'I know you,’ he said softly, ‘one quarter fury, three quarters remorse.’ She lifted her eyes and he smiled gently. ‘And 100 percent stubborn,’ he joked hoping to relieve the tension pulsing between them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her face crumbling with regret at her hateful words. ‘I was so angry. It’s unforgivable.’

‘Sophia…’ he started but got no further. She interrupted him, blue eyes desperate and imploring him, ‘I love him. I cannot help it.’

‘He is not right for you,’ he said firmly. ‘His background, his occupation - you cannot marry him.’

‘It didn’t stop you from marrying,’ she disputed hotly, instantly lowering her eyes. She took a deep breath, shifting her tone, pleading with him, ‘how is this different?’ He was silent for a moment.

‘I didn’t know her background. I accepted what she told me,’ he answered quietly. ‘The marriage is most likely invalid – she has married several times and was probably in a common law marriage with the man she claimed was her brother,’ he added, staring off into the middle distance. ‘I never pursued it.’

‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have asked,’ she was apologetic. ‘I’m so….’

‘Sophie,’ he interrupted, leaning forward to her, ‘what is important is that you not marry him. You must request permission from the King. He will never give it and you cannot marry without it. It would be considered treason. You already know this – there are many risks.’

She did not reply, nor did she look away. She was studying him, and he saw indecision in her face – as though considering whether to tell him something. Her studied contemplation suddenly made him uneasy. Did she think there was a way to convince the King to allow her to marry Lucien? What would that be?

She dropped her eyes, ‘you need not worry - he refuses to marry me.’ Athos’ eyes flickered in surprise. The man had more sense that he had credited him.

‘But I won’t give him up,’ she said firmly. She looked across the table at him and grasped his hand firmly. There was real strength in her grip.  


‘Athos – please,’ beseeching him, ‘for all the love I bear for you – please, do not ask me to do what is impossible.’

He studied her anxious face and covered her hand with his, ‘swear to me that you will not go blindly into this with him, you will not marry him against the King’s command, and when I ask, you will tell me the truth.’ She nodded, ‘yes,’ she breathed, her blue eyes watery, but steady on his, and again, ‘yes, I swear.’

‘I must talk with the Duchess,’ she told him, 'and Treville.' 

He watched her walk away. It occurred to him, ironically, that there may be no place safer for her than with Grimaud. The palace was becoming increasingly dangerous. Rochfort could and would use her against Treville and could easily issue execution orders that he was not sure the King, in his current state of paranoia and isolation, would countermand. Grimaud commanded men and Athos had no doubt the man would employ the violence necessary to protect her.

He thought again about her lack of argument against the King’s permission to marry. Suddenly he was sure that she was planning how to overcome this obstacle – or ignore it. Butt what could she do? What could she and Lucien do?

He poured wine into his glass and drank it slowly. He started to pour more wine and then stopped, placing the flask back on the table. He thought about his wife, whether at this moment she was servicing the King. Jealousy and anger raced through him. And then…nothing. He was exhausted from the years entangled with Ann, but not indifferent to her. Since her return to Paris they had a few encounters and he knew his roiling emotions were not hidden from her. It pleased her that she still had power over him.

He imagined his feelings like phantom limbs, the memory of what was once there. He wondered if he would ever feel their time together had come and finally gone. How much did he need his pain, guilt, and sorrow as the means to keep her with him? He did not know his life without it or that he wanted to let it or her go.

>>>

She knocked gently on the door. It opened, and a sleepy young man stepped aside to let her into the entryway. She started for the stairs.  


'The Duchess is waiting for you, my lady,’ said the footman, walking to open the doors leading into the drawing room. She frowned and hesitated. She had not expected anyone to be awake at this late hour. She had certainly not expected for the Duchess to be waiting for her. She had stormed from the drawing room, shaking from the fury coursing through her at their assault on Lucien. She unconsciously curled her hands into fists and entered the room.

The Duchess was sitting in a large chair in front of the fire, a blanket covering her legs. She held a book on her lap, but it didn’t look as though she had been reading it. She turned her face to look at Sophia and smiled gently. Sophia stopped short, startled at the noble woman’s appearance. She looked exhausted, her face pale with dark circles under her eyes, her small frame appeared sunken in the large chair.

Frowning, Sophia unclenched her hands and walked quickly to her, kneeling and taking the woman’s hands in her own. They were ice cold. ‘You are freezing!’ she scolded gently rubbing the Duchess’ hands between her own, ‘you should be in bed Liana. I’ll take you to your bedchamber.’

‘You are rather bossy today,’ she said to the younger woman, an affectionate smile gentling her reprimand. Sophia pursed her lips and shrugged helplessly, ‘I am an annoyance.’ She was tired, anger spent yet unable to signal surrender. But the kindness in the older woman’s eyes and voice unexpectedly defused her fury and undercut her defenses completely. Instead of readying for another battle, all she felt was remorse for the pain she had caused this gentle woman. She had only known Liana’s fondness for her – never her criticism.

She looked at the Duchess, tears forming, ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, not trusting her voice.

The noble woman touched her cheek, her eyes traveling over Sophia’s face, ‘Athos is right about you,’ she said caringly.

Sophia lowered her eyes and shook her head, ‘I can well imagine what he would say about my behavior today,’ she said, her voice tremulous with terrible guilt at what she had said to him.

‘He only worries that you are alright,’ the noble lady said to her.

‘Why wouldn’t I be….,’ she was instantly annoyed that the thought she would not be alright with Lucien -but stopped. She had said enough in anger and rebellion at the people who cared for her and for whom she cared – deeply.

She turned to the Duchess, ‘you must go to bed Liana.’

‘I need to talk with you first,’ the noble lady said softly, patting the stool next to her for Sophia to sit.

‘Cannot it wait until morning?’ asked Sophia. She felt guilty enough for her part in the chaos and wanted the Duchess safe and warm in her bed, sleeping away her worry and exhaustion – for which she was the cause.

‘No,’ said Liana, firmly. ‘Come sit down,’ and she indicated the stool again. Sophia sat, holding her hands primly on her knees and waited. This time, she was determined to listen and say nothing.

‘Sophia –you may not know, but Lucien and I are …’ she hesitated, seeking the correct word, ‘old friends,’ seemed the best choice, if not the most accurate. Sophia looked at the Duchess, amusement gleaming from her blue eyes.

‘Friends?’ she asked, grinning and skeptical. ‘Rather more than that I think.’ The Duchess was caught off guard and stared at her for a moment and then laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘He told you,’ she said, shaking her head at her own foolishness. ‘Of course, he would tell you.’ She looked slightly abashed at the young woman smiling at her with amusement. ‘Are you….’again searching for the right word.

‘Shocked? Jealous? Angry? Indifferent?’ supplied Sophia helpfully. She laughed and said, ‘at different times probably all of that and more. He told me he had cared deeply for you, and that he will always be grateful for the time you spent together. Truly, I think he would render any service you asked of him,’ her blue eyes winked in amusement, ‘except, give me up.’

‘Yes,’ said the Duchess, ‘I know that about him. He did not give me his heart. I felt at times that he may have come close, but, I would catch him looking away as though he saw something or someone. He would not answer my pestering questions – he was very good at diverting attention from himself.’

‘It was you he was remembering,’ she regarded Sophia with both wonder and disbelief. ‘It’s difficult to understand this steadfastness and devotion –separated by so much time and distance. I cannot help but think destiny has a hand in it.’

Sophia smiled, looking towards the window and the darkened night, ‘I believe that destiny is not about getting to a specific destination – but rather about moving towards the person one is intended to become. With Lucien I have the most extraordinary sense of freedom – not from conventions…,’ she laughed ruefully, ‘although you, Athos, and Treville would certainly have cause to question that!’

She looked down at her hands, pressing them together as she searched for the words she needed, ‘I’m not sure I can explain what I mean,’ she said waving her hands helplessly. ‘I belong with him,’ she said simply, her voice slightly apologetic, but resolute.

‘You do know, if circumstances were otherwise, that you might have married Athos,’ the Duchess said. She was referring to the marriage contract between their fathers, signed before Sophia had been taken east by her father – and lost there for more than a decade.

Sophia nodded, ‘yes – but circumstances _were_ otherwise and who knows if we would have married had I never gone east with my father. I was a child when our fathers made the agreement. He met another and fell in love. I cannot think of all the possible scenarios we might have borne together in disaster or perfection.’

‘But he is the one who found me and brought me here. And, as I have no male relatives to guide me, and an aged document specifies my father’s wishes,’ her voice took on a magisterial tone, ‘the magistrates decreed, and the King confirmed that the Comte de la Fere be given the thankless task to _manage_ me – poor man – I cannot for the life of me understand why he agreed,’ she laughed at the challenges she presented him. ‘He is _too_ noble for his own good.’

The Duchess was laughing at her description, ‘I do not think it is management – more akin to guidance,’ she corrected. But she smiled, knowing there was more to Athos’ reasons than his sense of duty. Undeniably, there was a bond between them – a link through the other to their past lives, beloved fathers and lost opportunities.

‘For better or worse, his is the voice in my head – the one I truly listen to,’ she said softly. ‘Please do not tell him that!’ she pleaded, laughing in mock horror should he learn how much influence he had over her.

She leaned forward, grasping the Duchess’ hand, looking intensely into the older woman’s beloved face, ‘it grieves me to know that I have caused such distress and unhappiness with my behavior and choices. But I cannot give Lucien up and I beg you not to make me choose. For the sake of any affection you hold to me– please do not ask me to do so.’

The Duchess sighed heavily and studied the anxious face of the young woman she had come to love as a sister. Such fierce intelligence, fervent, compassionate and loyal to those she loved. How had she and Lucien held onto their remembrances and dreams of each other? She thought in unlikely that he would ever leave her. She wondered what plan he was developing for them – should the King object, or try to marry her to another, or some other political intrigue in which she could become a pawn.

‘What outcome do you see Sophia? Will you seek permission to marry from the King?

‘Lucien think that will be impossible,’ she said, but there was strange considering look in her iridescent blue eyes. She smiled at the Duchess - ‘we should both go to bed, it’s well past time.’

They walked up the stairs together, bidding each other good night. As the Duchess walked to her bedchamber she thought it unlikely Sophia was going to her room. 

The Duchess stood at the window overlooking the street below and watched as Sophia ran towards Lucien holding open the door to the waiting carriage. He stepped into the carriage after her. She watched it roll away.

She lay in her large feather bed, with silken sheets and soft pillows. She was content with her gentle and affectionate husband, her healthy children, and secure in her sedate and predictable life. She knew who she was, the expectations of her station, and she had done her duty to her family.  


Still, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she thought of Lucien. She could close her eyes and remember him, the magnetism that captivated her, the intensity of his dark eyes, strength of his body, the power and authority that emanated from him. Lucien loved Sophia and she could only imagine the ferocity and encompassing nature of that love.

<<<

She lay awake, watching him. His face gentled when he slept, smoothing the severity and hard edges of his features – firm squared jaw, high cheekbones and straight brows framing deep set hazel eyes, curling lashes shadowing his sun bronzed cheeks, mouth generous and sensually shaped. How could a man be so handsome she wondered – if they were ever to marry, the groom would be more beautiful than the bride. The thought made her smile.

‘Like what you see my lady?’ he asked sleepily, not opening his eyes. She gave a short laugh and leaned forward to brush her lips against his. He let her push him onto his back, her hand roaming across his broad muscled shoulders and down his hardened torso. His body moved reflexively at her touch.

He groaned softly, ‘now look at what you have started.’ She laughed again and laid her head against his chest, her fingers still tracing patterns on his stomach.

‘I have a question,’ she said. A glimmer of an idea was taking shape in her mind. Absently, her fingers slid down through short silky hair, stroking him with gentle pressure. Instinctively he pushed his hips against her hand.

He moaned, ‘if you want to talk, then you have to stop that,’ referring to her wandering hand and exploring fingers. She grinned but did not still her hand.

‘Do you think there is something the King would want enough to trade me for it?’ she asked.

‘It?’ he asked, ‘trading who?’ he was a little muddled and completely captivated by the sensations racing through him as she continued her gentle but insistent stroking of his very aroused body.

‘Yes - it’ she chastised, ‘pay attention.’ He writhed slightly under her, ‘I am paying attention,’ he gasped as she increased the pressure of her fingers, ‘I would think that was completely obvious by now.’

She smiled and stopped her hand. His eyes flew open in dismay, ‘oh, no no no no no!’ he objected, eyes dark with unmet desire and suddenly she was on her back, laughing, trying to speak, but he was kissing her insistently and pushing her legs apart with his, ‘talk later,’ he growled.

He collapsed back against the bed, breathing hard and spent. She rolled to her side, bent her elbow and balanced her head on her hand. ‘Talk now?’ she inquired sweetly. He slanted his eyes to her, rolling his head side to side – no. He slid his arm under her shoulder and pulled her against him, her head resting on his shoulder. ‘Later,’ he murmured and was asleep. She lay still, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. She had an idea and needed to talk with him – but it could wait.


End file.
